..m\  }mf 


SAINT 
MAGLOIR 

ROLAND 

dorgelEs 


«i« 


*■• 


^iiiiil 


•H 


•U 


i 


I^S  JJJ  dvvJ  ^. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE 


Monsieur  Dorgeles,  the  author  of  the  famous 
war  book,  Croix  de  Bois,  won  a  deserved  repu- 
tation for  bravery  during  the  war,  and  in  this 
novel  he  shows  a  courage  of  another  kind. 
Magloire  Dubourg,  commonly  known  as  Saint 
Magloire,  returns  to  his  own  country  after 
forty  years  spent  as  a  lay  missionary.  His 
reputation  has  preceded  him,  he  is  known  as 
a  miracle  worker  and  a  mighty  teacher,  and 
when  he  lands  in  France  crowds  immediately 
flock  to  hear  him.  From  this  point  onward 
Mons.  Dorgeles  traces  the  progress  of  the  saint 
and  its  effect  on  contemporary  French  minds, 
peasants  and  bourgeois,  with  a  fine  and  im- 
partial sincerity. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

by 

ROLAND  DORGELES 


Translated  by 
PAULINE  DE  CHARY 


NEW  >ta|r  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


'1 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE 


-3fC' 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE 


PROLOGUE 

The  Havas  Agency  reports  : 

Marseilles,  May  i8.  This  afternoon  at  4  o'clock 
St.  Magloire  set  foot  in  France. 

It  was  anticipated  that  the  return  of  the  well- 
known  traveller  would  attract  vast  numbers  of  spec- 
tators, but  no  one  foresaw  that  the  event  would 
produce  such  a  tumultuous  demonstration. 

The  local  papers  had  annoimced  the  time  of  his 
arrival,  and  long  before  the  "Plata"  had  made  port 
a  huge  crowd  collected  on  the  platform  of  the  Har- 
bour Station,  and  in  the  neighbouring  streets.  The 
police,  surprised  by  these  unexpected  throngs,  promptly 
threw  a  cordon  round  the  landing  stage. 

Neither  the  Prefect  nor  the  Bishop  was  represented  : 
but  a  number  of  priests  and  missionaries,  who  have 
recently  returned  from  Africa,  were  to  be  seen  in  the 
crowd. 

Directly  the  gangway  was  lowered,  the  onlookers 
rushed  to  the  landing  stage,  and  burst  right  through 
the  cordon.  For  some  moments  there  was  pande- 
monium. The  men  shouted  and  cheered  St.  Magloire, 
while  the  women  threw  flowers  and  kisses. 

The  saint  was  soon  recognised,  thanks  to  a  photo- 
graph which  had  already  made  his  features  familiar. 
The  crowd  wanted  to  carry  him  in  triumph,  but  the 
explorer,  who  has  retained  all  his  youthful  strength 
in  spite  of  his  sixty  years,  valiantly  resisted  the 
attempt.  Escorted  by  over  five  thousand  people,  he 
had  no  easy  task  in  reaching  his  hotel.  Traffic  had 
to  be  held  up  all  along  the  route,  for  the  human  wave 
surged  over  the  Quai  La  Joliette  and  the  Rue  de  la 
Republique. 


2  PROLOGUE 

We  noted  one  amusing  detail :  some  over-ardent 
admirers  had  refused  to  permit  the  EvangeUst  of  the 
negroes  to  carry  his  own  bag;  and,  when  he  reached 
his  destination,  the  bag  could  not  be  found.  His 
imscrupulous  followers  had  probably  shared  its  con- 
tents as  relics  among  themselves. 

The  crowd,  in  spite  of  the  police  reinforcements 
which  had  been  called  to  the  spot,  was  only  scattered 
with  great  difhcult\^  The  people  massed  in  front  of 
the  Hotel,  and  clamoured  for  the  saint  with  such 
insistence  that  he  was  at  last  obliged  to  appear  on 
the  balcony  and  beg  them  to  return  to  their  homes. 

We  should  have  been  glad  to  obtain  a  few  minutes' 
interview  with  the  illustrious  traveller  and  to  ask 
him  the  reason  for  his  return  to  France  after  an  exile 
of  forty  years,  also  whether  he  was  definitely  aban- 
doning his  apostleship;  but  Magloire  Dubourg  would 
see  no  one. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  afternoon  he  walked  to 
the  church  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  where  he  remained 
in  prayer  for  some  time.  On  being  recognised  by 
the  public  in  the  streets  he  met  with  an  impassioned 
demonstration. 

We  are  assured  that  St.  Magloire  will  leave  to-night 
for  Paris. 


CHAPTER  I 

A  WHITE  house,  half  hidden  by  lime  trees;  a  spacious 
lawn  that  shone  like  varnish,  with  clumps  of  dwarf 
rose-bushes,  bordered  with  marigolds;  lilacs  here 
and  there;  and,  separating  the  house  from  the  road, 
a  small  park  crossed  by  zig-zag  walks :  all  of  this 
could  be  seen  from  outside  through  the  bars  of  the 
railings.  The  trees  were  alive  with  chirping  nests, 
and  the  invisible  hose  of  a  gardener  sprayed  the  aii- 
with  its  limpid  murmur.  The  pillar  of  the  entrance 
bore  the  following  inscription  in  Gothic  characters, 
engraved  in  the  stone  : 

The  King's  Domain. 

The  Dubourgs  spent  the  summer  here  from  May 
till  October.  Fran9ois  Dubourg,  the  popular  novelist, 
had  bought  this  property  about  fifteen  years  ago, 
some  little  time  before  the  war  of  1914,  out  of  the 
proceeds  of  his  first  success  and — ^whether  from  grati- 
tude, superstition,  or  mere  vaingloriousness — ^he  had 
christened  the  house  after  his  serial.  The  King's 
Domain." 

The  Barlincourt  people  when  they  talked  of  the 
Dubourg's  villa  called  it  "The  House  of  Happiness." 

From  the  outside  nothing  could  ever  be  heard  but 
laughter,  the  sound  of  games,  mad  scamperings  over 
the  gravel  paths,  Yvonne's  fragile  voice  singing  at 
the  piano,  and  the  clarion  calls  of  the  novelist,  whose 
mania  it  was  to  shout  his  orders  to  the  servants 
through  the  window  of  his  study.  He  said  he  did 
this  "to  keep  his  ideas  in  order."  The  habitation 
itself  breathed  happiness :  a  fragrance  that  varied 
at  every  step  :    the  perfume  of  flowers  in  the  garden, 

3 


4  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

the  smell  of  delicate  cookery  within,  the  iris-scented 
linen  in  the  bedrooms. 

This  afternoon  Mme.  Dubourg  had  placed  her  couch 
in  her  favourite  spot  on  the  terrace  which  stretched 
between  the  villa  and  the  out-buildings,  a  village  in 
miniature,  with  the  old  lime  tree,  and  the  well  with 
its  worn  kerb.  The  air  was  hot  as  midsummer. 
All  was  still,  as  though  the  slightest  movement  would 
bring  exhaustion.  The  refreshing  hum  of  the  hose 
watering  the  lawn  alone  broke  the  stillness 

Mme.  Dubourg  was  hovering  between  wakefulness 
and  sleep.  She  had  come  to  that  exquisite  moment 
when  under  closed  lids  vague  dreams  glide  to  and 
fro.  Consciousness  lies  in  abeyance;  thoughts  fade 
as  they  come,  like  the  vain  circles  that  ripple  the 
surface  of  a  pool.  She  knew  her  children  were  near; 
her  whole  happiness  lay  within  the  railings  of  her 
garden.  Her  son  had  already  attempted  to  paint  her 
in  this  pose  :  an  unconscious  little  smile  upon  her 
lips,  a  dimple  hidden  in  her  cheek,  her  round  arm 
drooping. 

Motionless,  with  half  open  eyes,  she  revelled  in 
her  quiet  happiness :  a  swallow  flying  overhead, 
streaking  through  the  air  with  its  shrill  cry,  the  silvery 
swaying  of  a  big  tree,  the  gardener's  rake  stroking 
caressingly  over  the  gravel.  .  .  .  Nothing  either 
harsh  or  disturbing  anywhere.  Gradually  she  was 
slipping  into  a  doze,  not  even  taking  the  trouble  to 
turn  away  her  head  from  the  speck  of  sun  which 
burned  her  cheek.  Her  reverie  was  growing  evanes- 
cent, conscious  only  of  the  blue  soul  of  the  sweet- 
smelling  lilac. 

She  felt  herself  dropping  into  sleep,  but  at  the  last 
moment,  with  an  effort,  she  pulled  herself  up  with  a 
jerk,  and  sat  erect  on  the  couch.  Yvonne  at  her 
side  was  laughing. 

"You  were  falling  asleep." 

Her  mother  glanced  at  her,  and  scolded  laughingly. 

"And  you  were  letting  me.    Of  course,  you  don't 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  5 

mind  my  becoming  fat,  you  don't  mind  having  a 
horrid,  enormous  mother.  I  simply  must  keep 
awake,  so  give  me  my  book.  It  has  fallen  into 
the  well." 

The  girl,  without  showing  any  surprise,  stood  up, 
and  bending  over  the  kerb  she  picked  up  the  book, 
which  was  not  even  wet.  It  had  been  one  of  M. 
Francois  Dubourg's  fancies  to  have  this  sham  well 
constructed  on  the  terrace;  in  his  opinion  "it  made  a 
good  impression"  and  looked  very  rustic. 

This  same  passion  for  rusticity  had  lured  him  on 
to  transform  the  porter's  lodge — an  unassuming  little 
hole  which  did  not  please  him — into  a  sort  of  gabled 
mansion  of  the  worst  Old  Paris  style. 

The  inhabitants  of  Barlincourt  had  grown  used  to 
it  by  now :  but  at  first  they  used  to  stare  at  the 
mulUoned  windows,  the  grinning  gargoyles,  the  sham 
beams,  the  rusty  signboard  which  creaked  in  the 
wind.  M.  Dubourg,  wishing  to  add  to  the  picturesque 
appearance  of  the  villa,  had  a  sundial  painted  on  the 
front  of  the  outbuildings.  He  had  drawn  the  divisions 
himself  by  the  shadow  of  a  rod  fixed  in  the  wall, 
ignoring  all  details  of  meridian  height,  angular  dis- 
tances, and  other  gnomonical  rules.  It  was  a  real 
freak,  this  fantastic  timepiece  that  told  the  time  in 
a  way  of  its  own  and  gave  the  lie  to  all  the  clocks  in 
the  countryside.  By  dint  of  consulting  it,  however, 
the  Dubourgs  had  come  to  understand  something  of 
its  eccentric  information,  and  the  dial,  after  all,  gave 
them  the  time  to  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  As 
for  the  novelist,  the  mere  sight  on  the  wall  of  the 
lyrical  motto  that  he  had  composed:  "My  hours  are 
bom  and  die  with  thee,  O  Sun  Divine  ! "  was  enough 
to  make  him  happy. 

Consulting  the  sundial,  cut  in  two  by  the  shadow 
of  the  needle,  Mme.  Dubourg  exclaimed  : 

"What,  past  three!  How  the  time  flies!  It  is 
perfectly  dreadful.  Run  along  quickly  and  tell  AdMe 
that  your   father  is  coming  back  from  Paris  by  the 


6  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

six  o'clock  train,  and  that  we'll  dine  a  little  earlier 
than  usual." 

The  girl  went  off  towards  the  kitchen  and  Mme. 
Dubourg  began  to  read,  absent-mindedly  running 
her  paper-cutter  through  the  loose  curls  of  her  hair. 

Yvonne  delivered  her  message  to  the  cook,  whom 
she  found  shelling  peas,  and  then  skipped  along  to 
her  brother,  who  was  painting  in  the  poultry-yard. 

"Will  you  have  a  game  of  tennis,  Gerard?"  she 
asked  across  the  wire-netting. 

"Not  just  now,  it  is  still  too  hot,"  answered  the 
young  man,  keeping  his  back  turned  to  her.  "Be- 
sides, I  want  to  iinish  this  first." 

"You  won't  come?  All  right!  Then  I'll  shoo 
your  models  away." 

And  pushing  open  the  door  of  the  enclosure,  she 
ran  in,  clapping  her  hands,  her  skirts  a-flutter  in  the 
wind.  At  her  approach  there  ensued  a  noisy  stam- 
pede of  hens  with  flapping  wings  and  geese  with  out- 
stretched necks.  Ducklings  tumbled  down,  beak  first, 
imable  to  keep  on  their  flat  feet;  rabbits  fled  towards 
the  hazels,  carrying  off  a  blade  of  grass  to  nibble  on 
the  way. 

Gerard,  from  his  campstool,  followed  his  sister  with 
his  eyes. 

"  How  clever  of  you !  Just  wait  till  your  next 
piano-lesson;    you'll  hear  some  jazz-band,   I  promise 

you." 

But  already,  without  listening  to  him,  she  had  gone 
into  the  hen-house  to  look  for  eggs.  The  young  man 
squeezed  some  red  on  to  his  palette,  and  with  hght 
touches  went  on  with  the  painting  of  his  turkey. 

"The  turkey,"  he  said  as  he  painted,  "is  the 
'bourgeois'  of  the  poultry-yard.  He  is  proud  of 
looking  different  from  the  others,  even  if  the  only 
difference  is  a  goitre.  The  hen  and  the  turkey  are 
certainly  the  stupidest  animals  of  all.  Don't  you 
thmk  so?" 

The  man  he  was  addressing  sat  near  his  easel,  on 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  7 

a  tree  stump :  an  oldish  man,  badly  dressed,  and 
wearing  a  cap  several  sizes  too  large.  He  gazed  in 
front  of  him  with  watery  eyes,  and  snivelled  con- 
tinually as  he  talked.  The  thick  grey  moustache, 
that  drooped  over  his  mouth,  swallowed  half  his 
words. 

"Why,  sure  enough,  they  are  not  clever;  but 
there,  I  don't  know  much  about  poultry,  and  as  to 
turkeys,  I  must  say  I  don't  know  what  they  taste 
like.   ...     It  isn't  a  working  man's  food." 

Gerard,  busy  in  trying  to  find  a  certain  coloiu-  on 
his  palette,  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  : 

"Still,  you  can't  complain.  Counting  what  Mr. 
Aubemon  gives  you,  you  can  live  decently.  .  .  . 
Lots  of  working  men  haven't  got  so  much." 

The  man  looked  down  at  his  old  shoes  : 

"Well,  of  course,  I  don't  want  to  run  down 
Aubemon;  he  treats  me  fair.  Before  he  got  so  rich, 
we  used  to  work  together  at  the  same  bench,  him 
and  me,  and  we  were  pals.  Still,  that  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  give  me  a  pension.  It  was  during  the 
war  he  made  his  pile.  Some  say  it  wasn't  always 
on  the  square,  but  that's  no  business  of  ours.  Five 
years  ago,  when  I  was  all  tied  up  in  knots  with  rheu- 
matics, he  said  to  me  at  once  :  '  Don't  you  worry, 
Mathieu.     I'll  see  to  it  that  you  keep  going.'     And 

so  I  live StiU,  there  it  is  :    he  has  become 

a  boss  and  I  am  still  a  poor  working  man.  You, 
being  a  socialist,  can  understand." 

The  young  man  went  on  with  his  painting,  scarcely 
hstening,  for  he  was  used  to  Mathieu  and  his  re- 
criminations. After  a  while  the  old  man  added,  for 
caution's  sake  : 

"I'm  only  saying  all  this,  just  because  we're 
talking  about  it,  you  know.  But  if  some  day  Miss 
Yvonne  married  young  Aubernon,  as  folks  are  sajdng, 
you  won't  repeat  anything  to  the  old  man,  will  you? 
He's  got  so  terribly  proud,  it's  making  him  down- 
right wicked." 


8  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"All  right.  You  needn't  be  afraid." 
The  animals,  having  recovered  from  their  fright, 
had  gone  back  to  their  various  occupations.  A  puUet, 
with  what  looked  like  strapped  trousers,  the  feathers 
reaching  to  its  spurs,  pecked  away  at  the  hair  of  a 
kid  that  was  lying  on  the  ground.  Geese  were  parad- 
ing up  and  down  in  single  file,  limping  and  heavy  of 
rump.  In  front  of  an  open  hutch,  rabbits,  squatting 
head  to  head,  rubbed  their  malicious  little  noses 
together,  probably  slandering  the  fowls.  Others,  not 
really  hungry,  were  eating  just  for  something  to  do, 
and  from  a  distance  one  could  see  the  tips  of  their 
ears  twitching. 

Gerard  was  sketching  them  swiftly,  catching  their 
outlines  at  a  glance.  Mathieu  had  got  up  and  was 
watching  him. 

"It  really  is  funny,"  he  said.  "But  to  my  mind 
photography  is  more  profitable,  because  it's  quicker. 
The  other  day,  young  Aubernon  took  my  portrait, 
and  it's  me  to  a  T." 

Two  little  bristling  cocks  were  fighting.  First 
they  stared  at  each  other,  then  slowly  bent  their 
heads,  watching  warily  for  their  chance;  then  flew 
furiously  together,  screeching  and  flapping  their  wings. 
A  goose,  with  her  yellow  beak  wide  open,  looked  on, 
hissing  angrily. 

"All  the  same,"  the  old  man  went  on,  "I  call 
them  funny  ways  of  making  a  living :    you  making 

pictures,    M.   Dubourg  writing   stories Why, 

I've  just  been  reading  The  Red  Bastard  that  the 
Dumarchey  girl  lent  me.  You  can't  believe  such 
things  as  that  really  happen.  There's  no  doubt  but 
it's  exciting,    ....  only  .    .    .    ." 

He  stood,  swaying  back  and  forth,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  lookmg  for  fine  words  to  express  his 
thoughts.  Then  he  concluded  sententiously,  raising 
his  heavy  drunkard's  eyes  : 

"Only  these  things  they  don't  improve  the  minds 
of  the  people,  and  that's  a  pity." 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  9 

Gerard,  busy  with  his  work,  did  not  reply.  He 
was  painting  furiously,  puckering  his  forehead  and 
biting  his  lips.  The  workman  had  sat  do-vn  again, 
his  legs  having  quickly  failed  him.  He  quite  enjoyed 
being  at  the  "King's  Domain."  Once  Mr,  Aubernon, 
his  old  boss,  had  sent  him  to  repair  the  lawn-mower, 
and  ever  since  then  he  turned  up  from  time  to  time 
to  spend  the  afternoon  there,  offering  to  do  all  kinds 
of  odd  jobs,  locks  that  wanted  seeing  to  or  tools  that 
needed  sharpening.  Thus  he  often  earned  two  or 
three  francs,  and  was  always  given  a  good  glass  of 
wine.  Besides  this,  he  was  glad  to  show  Moucron, 
whom  he  had  hated  ever  since  their  school-days,  that 
the  gentry  took  notice  of  him. 

He  began  again  after  a  few  minutes'  silence,  "So  it 
seems  that  your  famous  uncle  is  coming  back  to 
France  after  all.     It  was  in  the  paper  this  morning." 

Gerard  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  This  is  at  least  the  twentieth 
time  they  have  announced  his  arrival  and  up  to  now 
it  has  never  come  true.  If  he  had  actually  started 
he  would  have  let  my  father  know." 

The  workman  looked  worried. 

"TeU  me,"  he  said,  "is  he  really  and  truly  a 
saint,  like  the  ones  in  the  calendar  ?  " 

The  absurd  question  brought  a  smile  to  the  young 
man's  face. 

"I  reaUy  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "You 
would  have  to  ask  the  Pope  about  that." 

Mathieu  shook  his  head. 

"WeU,  well,  wouldn't  he  be  surprised  to  find  a 
nephew  of  his  with  ideas  like  yours  ?  " 

The  idle  talk  was  beginning  to  bore  Gerard  Dubourg. 
He  liked  to  paint  by  himself,  under  the  old  twisted 
apple  trees  in  whose  branches  the  hens  roosted  at 
night.  The  park  skirted  the  poultry  yard,  each  gust 
of  wind  bringing  from  it,  with  a  mass  of  whirling 
leaves,  the  strong  and  acrid  fragrance  of  the  firs.  On 
the   other  side  of  the  wall  lay   the   kitchen  garden 


lo  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

where  Louis,  the  cook's  nephew,  coiild  be  heard 
whistling  softly  at  his  work. 

"Well,"  said  the  painter,  standing  up,  "that's 
enough  for  to-day.  The  sun  has  moved  and  the  light 
is  no  longer  good  enough." 

Someone  probably  recognised  his  voice,  for  a  shout 
came  from  across  the  wall : 

"  Good  -  afternoon,  Mr.  Gerard,  how  are  things 
with  you?" 

"  Good  -  afternoon,  Moucron,"  the  young  man 
answered,  as  he  folded  up  his  easel.  "Here  I  am, 
with  one  of  your  best  friends." 

"Oh,  I  can  guess  who  you  mean,"  the  voice 
went  on  scornfully.  "It's  Mathieu,  the  old  black- 
guard,   with    you    again Good    afternoon, 

Mathieu  !  I  know  him,  he'll  jabber  more  than  he'll 
work." 

The  workman  did  not  look  as  though  he  appreciated 
the  jest. 

"So  do  I  know  him,"  he  grumbled.  "And  I'd 
rather  be  in  the  poor-house  than  have  made  my 
money  the  way  he  has.  They've  got  so  much  pride, 
those  peasants,  they  have  so  much  land  the}'  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  it,  and  yet  they  go  on  pUing 
up   money.     I   can   remember   some   rotten   tricks   he 

played,    in   our   young   days Now   see   here, 

we  used  to  have  a  cask  of  wine  tapped  in  front"  of  the 
Town  Hall  every  14th  July,  'for  the  poor'  as  they 
say.  Well,  that  scoundrel  was  always  the  first  to 
turn  up  at  the  cask,  and  even  then  he  wouldn't 
drink  honestly  from  the  cup.  He  must  needs  take 
his  wine  away  in  quarts,  said  he'd  rather  drink  it  at 
home.  He  would  come  back  fifteen  or  twenty  times 
running,  and  he  managed  to  store  up  enough  for  the 

whole  harvest  time And  do  you  know  what 

he  did  to  save  himself  from  being  blackguarded 
by  the  others?  He'd  pretend  to  be  as  drunk 
as  a  lord,  and  he'd  sing  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,    and    stagger    about,    but    anyone    coald    tell 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  IT 

you    he    was    no    more    drunk    than    you  or  I    arc 

now.    That's  the  kind  of  man  he  is If  you 

respect  the  Ukes  of  him,  well,  you're  wrong, 
that's  aU." 

Mathieu  touched  his  cap,  bade  Gerard  a  curt 
good-bye,  and  walked  off,  turning  into  the  pantry  on 
his  way.  Gerard  put  his  palette  away  and  went  into 
the  house.  His  sister  was  already  waiting  for  him, 
bouncing  her  tennis  ball  up  and  down  on  the  terrace 
with  her  wiry  little  hand. 

"Ah  !     There     you     are,     at     last Hurry 

up,    get    your    racket Mother,    we    are    off. 

We'll  meet  father  at  the  station." 

Just  then,  Mme.  Dubourg,  who  was  binding  a  twig 
of  honeysuckle  to  its  stake,  turned  towards  the  garden 
door  which  had  slammed  to,  and  gave  a  cry  of  sur- 
prise. 

"Why,  there  he  is,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  caught 
sight  of  her  husband  at  the  other  end  of  the  path, 
"Something  must  have  happened." 

She  ran  to  meet  him.  M.  Francois  Dubourg  was 
moving  quickly,  wiping  his  forehead  as  he  walked; 
he  carried  his  large  grey  felt  hat  in  his  hand.  His 
hair,  which  was  beginning  to  turn  grey,  was  long  and 
brushed  back,  and  he  wore  a  moustache  turned  up 
at  the  ends  and  a  pointed  beard;  but  the  mild  ex- 
pression that  his  thick  glasses  lent  him  destroyed 
any  pretensions  to  a  martial  appearance,  and  after 
all  he  looked  more  like  a  photographer  than  a  mus- 
keteer. His  usually  smiling  face  was  grave.  His  wife 
understood  at  once. 

"Your  brother?"  she  questioned. 

M.  Dubourg  gave  her  no  direct  answer.  Including 
her  with  the  children,  he  sail : 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

AU  three  gazed  at  him,  puzzled.  The  novelist  laid 
his  hat  on  the  kerb,  planted  his  walking-stick  in  the 
well,  as  though  it  were  an  umbrella-stand,  and  began 
leisurely  : 


12  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"Your      uncle,     the     Saint,      will     be    here     to- 
night.  ..." 


Ever  since  their  earliest  childhood  Yvonne  and 
Gerard  could  remember  hearing  about  the  Saint. 
Either  by  force  of  habit,  or  from  a  somewhat  childish 
pride,  M.  Dubourg  never  caUed  him  anything  but 
"Your  uncle  the  Saint,"  and  not  a  single  day  went 
by  without  reference  to  him.  He  was  at  once  the 
protector,  the  adviser  and  the  bogey  of  the  family; 
and  from  the  other  side  of  the  earth,  invisible  but 
always  present,  it  was  his  influence  which  had  guided 
these  children,  whose  names  he  probably  did  not 
even  know.  As  babies,  they  used  to  be  threatened 
with : — 

"Wait  tiU  your  uncle  the  Saint  comes 
back"    .   .    . 

Later  on,  when  they  were  old  enough  to  under- 
stand, the  honour  which  this  relationship  conferred 
was  explained  to  them,  and  soon  they,  in  turn,  began 
to  entertain  their  pla^rfellows  with  tales  of  the  ad- 
ventures of  their  hero. 

No  one  could  have  foreseen,  forty  years  earlier, 
that  a  day  would  come  when  Magloire  Dubourg  would 
be  the  pride  of  his  family,  far  less  that  he  would 
become  a  saint.  At  that  time  he  was  a  child  of  few 
words,  energetic,  extremely  gentle,  but  subject  to 
sudden  fits  of  passion  which  terrified  his  mother.  He 
went  to  church  diligently,  but  never  seemed  to  feel  a 
call  to  the  religious  life.  What  he  wanted  to  do  was 
to  live  in  the  country  and  be  a  farmer  on  a  large 
scale;  and  with  this  end  in  view  he  studied  for  three 
years  at  an  agricultural  college.  He  left  it  to  do  the 
year  of  military  service,  due  from  the  eldest  son  of  a 
widow.  He  then  came  back  to  Amberieu;  but  it 
was  evident  that  his  soldiering  had  not  made  him 
more  lively  or  more  talkative.  On  the  contrary,  he 
was    more    reserved    than    ever.    Among    the    people 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  13 

about  him,  it  was  always  supposed  that  he  was  going 
to  buy  land,  but  he  discussed  his  plans  with  no  one, 
not  even  with  his  mother. 

One  night,  on  her  return  home,  Mme.  Dubourg 
found  a  letter  from  her  son,  bidding  her  faiewell ; 

"I  am  leaving  for  the  Colonies,"  he  explained 
without  further  details.  "A  true  Christian  caimot 
rest  as  long  as  there  exists  in  the  world  a  single  man 
who  does  not  believe  in  God.  I  am  going  to  save 
souls." 

The  first  thought  of  the  poor  widow  was  that 
Magloire  had  gone  mad,  the  more  so  as  he  had  left 
with  his  letter  a  bundle  of  securities,  amounting  to 
nearly  the  whole  of  his  paternal  inheritance,  with 
this  inscription  from  the  Gospel:  "Thou  shalt  take 
nothing  with  thee  on  the  road."  This  money  he 
wished  to  have  distributed  among  the  poor 

The  police  were  hurriedly  notified  and  inquiries  set 
afoot  Some  people  declared  they  had  seen  young 
Dubourg  getting  into  a  train  with  a  forme*  servant 
girl  from  the  "Golden  Lion";  others  told  a  tale  of  his 
having  been  seen  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Ain,  and 
presumed  that  he  had  been  drowned.  Apart  from 
his  mother,  nobody  believed  in  this  sudden  vocation; 
none  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Foreign  Missions,  neither 
the  Lazarists  nor  the  White  Fathers,  had  ever  heard 
of  the  young  man.  His  name  did  not  appear  on  the 
passenger  lists  of  the  shipping  companies,  and  the 
magistrate  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  be 
hiding  in  Paris  with  some  v/oman.  However,  as  he 
was  of  age  and  there  was  no  charge  to  bring  against 
him,  the  police  could  not  be  set  on  his  track.  In  the 
end  he  would  surely  give  some  sign  of  life. 

Years  went  by  and  still  there  was  no  news  of  him. 
Everyone  pitied  Madame  Dubourg  for  having  such  a 
son,  and  the  poor  woman  gradually  lost  the  courage 
to  stand  up  for  him  when  people  spoke  of  him. 

"He  may  be  dead,"  she  sighed,  still  trying  to 
find  excuses  for  him. 

B 


14  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Moreover,  it  was  Francois,  the  younger  of  her  boys, 
who  had  always  been  her  favourite,  and  he,  fortu- 
nately, gave  her  nothing  but  satisfaction.  He  had 
no  sooner  left  college  than  he  began  to  write,  and  his 
name  soon  began  to  appear  in  the  Paris  papers. 

"It  is  the  most  one  could  hope  for,"  said  her 
friends,  "that  out  of  two  sons  only  one  should  turn 
out  badly." 

Francois  Dubourg,  when  approached  about  his 
brother,  put  on  the  air  of  importance  which  suited 
his  new  role  as  the  eldest  son  of  a  widow. 

"I  would  never  have  believed  Magloire  capable 
of  such  baseness.  It  is  always  safer  to  mistrust  these 
sUent  natures.  He  had  better  not  show  his  face 
again  here  ! "  he  said. 

Of  course,  the  money  of  the  prodigal  son  had  not 
been  given  to  the  poor  as  he  had  so  definitely  re- 
quested. Mme.  Dubourg  had  invested  it  in  a  first 
mortgage  which  doubled  her  little  income,  and  con- 
sidered that  she  had  wronged  no  one  by  doing  so. 
Besides,  she  had  confided  in  her  father  confessor 
about  this,  and  he  had  given  his  approval. 

Not  until  two  years  after  his  flight  did  Mme. 
Dubourg  receive  the  first  letter  from  her  son,  bearing 
the  Konakry  stamp.  Magloire  was  wandering  about 
Guinea,  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  harassed  by  the 
authorities.  He  did  not  complain  of  his  lot,  neither 
did  he  talk  of  coming  home. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  tell  anyone  about 
this,"  Fran9ois  had  urged  his  mother.  "Remember, 
he  is  living  like  a  tramp;  it  would  do  me  no  end  of 
harm." 

More  letters  had  come  at  long  intervals,  sometimes 
months,  sometimes  as  much  as  a  year.  The  countries 
changed  from  time  to  time,  but  the  vague  phrases 
he  wrote  were  always  the  same.  Since  he  wandered 
from  the  Ivory  Coast  into  the  very  heart  of  Africa, 
with  no  fixed  abode  and  no  headquarters,  it  was  not 
even  possible  to  answer  his  letters. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  15 

"Let  us  forget  all  about  him.  He  has  gone 
astray  and  is  lost  to  us,"  the  young  author,  who  by 
this  time  had  given  up  poetry  in  favour  of  more 
lucrative  work,  said  at  last,  "he  wiU  certainly  end  up 
in  prison." 

But  seven  or  eight  years  after  the  disappearance 
of  Magloire  Dubourg  somebody  showed  his  brother 
a  Belgian  newspaper  which  was  publishing  letters 
from  Gaboon. 

"Look,  here  is  a  reference  to  your  brother." 

The  younger  brother,  uneasy,  took  the  paper  and 
read,  with  cheeks  that  suddenly  flushed  scarlet.  He 
was  prepared  for  the  worst,  but  Uttle  bj'^  Uttle  the 
strained  expression  of  his  face  relaxed;  the  news  after 
all  was  not  so  bad. 

The  correspondent,  an  agent  of  a  timber  company, 
wrote  that  in  travelling  through  the  forests  of  the 
Crystal  Mountains,  where  at  that  time  there  was 
great  unrest,  he  had  come  across  a  most  peculiar 
character,  a  sort  of  lay  missionary,  who  was  held  in 
great  respect  by  the  natives.  This  man  roamed  un- 
tiringly through  the  forests  and  the  chaotic  mountains 
of  Omvan,  always  unarmed,  tending  the  sick  and 
making  peace  between  rival  chiefs.  It  had  been  due 
to  him  that  a  smaU  census  expedition,  which  had 
been  attacked  as  it  entered  the  village  of  Nkassia, 
had  not  been  massacred. 

When  he  read  this  carefully,  Fran9ois  Dubourg 
declared : 

"I  am  not  surprised.  To  be  sure,  he  is  cracked, 
but  he  has  got  pluck;    he  is  a  character." 

From  that  day  onward  he  no  longer  tried  to  change 
the  subject  when  questioned  about  his  brother;  he 
spoke  of  him  with  a  sort  of  chaffing  regard  and  tender 
commiseration. 

"He  is  converting  the  niggers,"  he  said,  shrugging 
his  shoulders. 

However,  from  time  to  time  French  papers  seemed 
interested    in    the    strange    explorer.     This    happened 


i6  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

for  the  first  time  in  connection  with  a  rising  of  native 
tribes  on  the  banks  of  the  Pama.  Magloire  Dubourg 
who  had  gone  into  the  M'Poko  country  to  save  a  few 
white  men  imprisoned  in  a  factory,  had  been  cap- 
tured by  the  rebel  chief.  The  latter  had  bound  him 
and  thrown  him  on  an  ant-hill  with  another  prisoner, 
a  militiaman,  to  be  eaten  alive.  A  few  hours  later, 
when  the  natives  returned,  nothing  remained  of  the 
militiaman  but  a  skeleton  still  covered  with  swarming 
ants;  but  Magloire  Dubourg,  spared  by  a  miracle, 
was  found  quietly  resting  a  few  steps  away. 

This  fantastic  adventure  gave  rise  to  the  legend  of 
Magloire  Dubourg.  He  was  mentioned  again  in  con- 
nection with  an  expedition  among  the  M'bi  cannibals, 
into  whose  hands  some  native  v/omen  had  fallen  who 
had  recently  been  converted  by  the  Fathers;  and  yet 
again  when,  during  his  tours  on  the  banks  of  the  Niari, 
he  collected  for  the  Catholic  Mission  of  Bouenza  dozens 
of  small  niggers  whom  he  had  rescued  from  the  agents 
of  the  slave  traders. 

Francois  Dubourg,  whose  respect  for  his  brother 
had  grown  since  the  papers  had  begun  to  talk  about 
him,  now  had  his  name  continually  on  his  lips.  He 
carried  "My  brother  Magloire"  to  the  point  of  excess. 
He  awaited  his  letters  with  impatience,  because  he 
wished  to  read  them  in  public,  and,  when  they  were 
worth  it  he  published  them  in  the  papers,  spinning 
out  the  text  at  need  and  adding  finishing  touches. 

At  the  time  of  the  final  fight  again  Samory,  Magloire 
Dubourg  was  in  the  Sudan.  Alone  as  usual  and  un- 
armed, he  betook  himself  to  Dabkala,  the  residence  of 
the  black  Napoleon,  and  before  long  he  assumed  a 
strange  ascendancy  over  the  Mussulman.  Rumour 
had  it  that  he  spoke  firmly,  even  brutally,  to  him. 
He  reproached  him  for  his  raids  and  his  massacres; 
and  he  had,  by  sheer  threats,  saved  more  than  one 
invested  post  and  obtained  the  pardon  of  entire  tribes 
of  Dkimini,  whom  the  Sofas  were  about  to  destroy. 

Giving  up  deliberately  all  hope  of  coming  out  alive. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  17 

he  remained  at  Samory's  side  as  long  as  the  war  lasted, 
the  only  white  man  among  those  fanatical  blacks.  In 
the  end  he  became  profoundly  attached  to  the  wan- 
dering emperor,  who  for  six  years  retreated  step  by 
ctep  before  the  French  troops,  carrying  aU  his  subjects 
with  him.  When  the  hour  of  defeat  struck  for  the 
Almany,  he  followed  him  to  Gabun,  to  that  island  of 
Ogooue  whei^e  the  black  conqueror  found  his  St.  Helena. 
During  those  two  3'ears,  from  1896  to  1898,  the  fame  of 
Magloire  Dubourg  spread  over  the  whole  world.  His 
grim  independence  added  still  further  to  his  renown. 
This  strange  man,  to  whom  his  country  owed  so  much, 
would  nevei  consent  to  the  official  receptions  arranged 
for  him  by  Governors;  and  Lt.  Col.  Bertin,  who  had 
been  ordered  to  convey  to  him  the  thanks  of  the 
Government  after  the  crushing  of  Samory,  never  suc- 
teeded  in  reaching  him.  The  Evangelist  associated 
with  no  one  but  the  missionaries,  who  commonly  talked 
•jf  him  as  "a  saint";  and  this  name  clung  to  him,  for 
only  a  sai?t  could  have  led  that  sublime  and  vagrant 

Already  he  was  credited  with  more  than  one  miracle  : 
^idng  people  cured,  a  blind  Sudanese  singer  whose 
sight  he  had  restored,  his  crossing  of  the  Bandama 
tiry-footed  when  pursued  by  the  N'Denous,  a  hundred 
improbable  stories,  invented,  no  doubt,  by  credulous 
?^egroes  and  spread  by  colonials  whose  brains  were  in- 
flamed by  fever,  climate  and  alcohol.  Finally  a  young 
Coloiiial  administrator,  who  had  seen  him  seated  on  the 
nanks  of  a  river  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  whose  trunk  was 
toirered  with  phosphorescent  mushrooms,  came  in  a 
great  fright  to  Bingerville.  He  related  how  with  his 
«vwn  eyes  he  had  seen  Magloire  Dubourg,  surrounded 
by  an  immense  halo  so  luminous  that  it  lighted  up 
atery  detail  of  his  garments.  This  tale,  when  it 
reached  the  papers,  impressed  the  public  more  than  all 
the  achievements  of  the  Christian  traveller. 

Francois  Dubourg  was  no  longer  embarrassed  when 
tne    "apostle"    was    mentioned,    far    from    it.      One 


i8  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

exploit  piled  on  another  turned  Magloire  Dubourg  into 
9  legendary  he:-o  in  the  eyes  of  the  crowd,  a  supermsji, 
God's  latest  messenger;  and  the  novelist  began  to 
boast  of  the  relationship  of  which  he  had  been  so  long 
ashamed.  The  existence  of  the  widow  Dubourg 
henceforth  centred  in  her  love  for  the  big  son  whom 
she  had  lost;  it  was  of  him  she  thought  in  the  morning 
at  Mass,  it  was  almost  to  him  that  she  prayed. 

The  poor  woman  died  without  being  granted  the 
joy  of  seeing  her  child  again.  On  the  day  of  the 
funeral,  a  small  incident  occurred  which  caused  a  pro- 
found impression.  A  raven  followed  the  procession 
from  the  house  to  the  cemetery,  flying  very  low;  and 
during  the  service  the  bird  perched  on  the  roof  of  the- 
church,  as  if  waiting  for  the  funeral  train  to  come  out. 

"It  is  the  Saint  following  his  mother,"  the  old 
women  whispered. 

At  the  cemetery  the  raven  hovered  croaking  above 
the  open  grave  and  then  resumed  his  unwieldy  flight 
towards  the  woods;  leaving  amongst  those  present, 
even  the  least  credulous  of  them,  a  queer  impression 
of  distress. 

The  whole  press  reported  this  fact  for  its  mere 
strangeness,  and  Mme.  Dubourg,  who  had  just  married 
the  young  novelist,  never  forgot  it. 

The  friend  of  the  negroes  returned  to  Gabun, 
following  Samory  to  the  island  where  he  was  to  die, 
and  soon  afterwards  resumed  his  apostleship  among 
the  Pahouins.  More  conversions,  more  miracles  fol- 
lowed; and  the  Paris  newspapers,  when  short  of 
exciting  crimes  wherewith  to  fill  their  columns,  fell 
back  on  Saint  Magloire,  since  every  mail  brought 
tidings  of  fresh  feats.  Francois  began  to  realise  that 
he  owed  his  rapid  rise  to  fame  as  much  to  the  repu- 
tation of  his  brother  as  to  the  merits  of  his  own  novels. 

The  Vatican  had  instituted  inquiries  about  this  lay 
missionary,  whose  noisy  celebrity  was  giving  rise  to 
uneasiness;  but  the  Fathers  of  the  Foreign  Missions, 
the    only    people    who    really    knew    the    traveller, 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  19 

honoured  him  as  the  worthiest  of  them  all,  and  Rome 
wasely  contented  itself  with  ignoring  the  wonder-worker. 
Magloire  Dubourg,  who  was  already  popular  with  the 
natives  of  the  colony,  soon  became  more  powerful  in 
the  Gabun  than  all  the  tribal  chiefs,  and  was  better 
obeyed  than  the  Lieutenant-Governor  himself.  He 
could  wander  in  safety  through  the  forests  of 
Mayombe;  none  but  the  wild  beasts  would  have  dared 
attack  him.  The  natives  even  declared  that  the 
animals  were  afraid  of  him,  and  stories  of  many  such 
happenings  were  circulated.  They  had  filled  a  whole 
number  of  the  Lectures  pour  Tous. 

One  day  when  Saint  Magloire  was  landing  at 
Cotonou,  his  canoe  capsized  as  it  was  crossing  the 
bar,  and  the  Saint  was  seen  struggling  in  the  midst 
of  sharks  whose  furious  taUs  lashed  the  water.  Yet 
none  had  bitten  him,  and  the  Saint  had  climbed  with- 
out a  scratch  into  the  canoe  which  came  to  rescue 
him.  A  similar  adventure  befell  him  with  the  alli- 
gators of  the  Niari.  In  the  Bateke  Desert  he  was 
surprised  by  a  panther  :  the  wild  beast  gazed  at  him, 
submissive,  as  once  the  lions  gazed  at  Daniel  in  the 
den,  and  the  Loango  porters,  when  they  came  up  with 
him,  killed  it  with  their  assegais.  In  the  Lower 
Likouala,  he  once  encountered  a  heid  of  buffalo  fleeing 
before  a  bush  fire.  The  massive  brutes  with  their 
short  glossy  horns  rushed  past  him  in  an  infernal 
gallop,  yet  not  one  grazed  him;  the  Evangelist  was 
safe  among  the  denizens  of  the  forest. 

Wherever  he  settled  down,  Saint  Magloire  kept  bees. 
He  loved  to  hear  around  him  the  humming  of  the 
swarms,  and  he  taught  the  natives  to  set  hives.  He 
had  never  been  stung :  one  day  when  those  agile  little 
hunters,  the  Babingas,  were  becoming  dangerous  after 
a  stormy  palaver  with  the  Evangelist,  the  bees  swooped 
upon  them  in  hundreds  and  put  them  to  rout,  harass- 
ing them  with  their  stings  and  making  them  howl.  All 
these  small  facts  swelled  the  legend  of  Saint  Magloire  : 
he  stood  for  all  that  was  miraculous  in  a  commonplace 


20  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

age,  he  represented  adventure  for  stay-at-home 
dreamers  and,  for  believers,  the  supernatural. 

Before  the  delimitation  of  the  Congo-Cameroon 
frontier  in  1912  he  thrilled  Europe  by  a  new  exploit. 
At  that  time  the  region  of  the  Voleu  N'Tem  was  in  a 
state  of  constant  disturbance.  Commercial  agents 
were  roughly  treated;  tax-collectors  were  often  re- 
ceived with  shots;  and  the  proximity  of  the  still  badly 
defined  German  frontier  made  repression  more  difficult. 
At  every  moment  the  native  farmers  complained  of 
being  raided;  every  month  there  were  new  rapes  of 
women,  and  the  militia  never  succeeded  in  catching 
up  with  the  evil-doers,  who  fled  towards  the  East  as 
soon  as  they  had  brought  off  a  coup. 

The  Essobams  were  the  first  to  revolt  openly.  They 
made  an  incursion  into  the  Bitam  territory,  attacked 
the  chief  of  the  sub-division,  killing  a  dozen  of  his 
men.  Then  they  fell  back,  carrying  off  an  agent  of  the 
N'Goko  Sangha,  his  wife  and  child,  whom  they  brought 
to  the  other  side  of  the  N'Tem,  into  Ekoreti  territory, 
of  which  no  one  could  sa}-'  it  it  was  French,  Gernian, 
or  independent.  This  district,  which  was  practically 
in  the  hands  of  German  revenue-farmers,  had  become 
the  refuge  of  all  the  individuals  who  were  wanted  by 
the  authorities  of  one  country  or  another,  an  asylum 
which  the  negroes  considered  inviolable,  and  a  meeting- 
place  for  all  the  plunderers  and  murderers  of  the 
Cameroons  and  the  Gabun.  The  Governor-General 
of  Equatorial  Africa  had  received  formal  instructions 
to  avoid  any  frontier  incidents;  orders  were  therefore 
given  to  the  boundary  troops  not  to  pursue  offenders 
beyond  the  N'Tem.  This  attitude  further  encouraged 
the  rebels,  and  as  French  detachments  had  captured 
isolated  groups  of  Essobams,  the  chiefs  made  it  known 
by  emissaries  that  they  were  going  to  behead  their 
three  hostages  by  way  of  reprisals. 

Magloire  Dubourg,  who  was  staying  at  the  Catholic 
Mission  of  Libreville,  promptly  left  his  retreat  and 
started  for  the  N'Tem,  cutting  his  way  through  two 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  21 

hundred  miles  of  undergrowth  and  forest  infested  by 
rebels,  and  by  rivers  where  the  stations  had  been 
destroyed.  He  penetrated  into  Ekoreti  territory  to 
ask  the  Essobam  chief  to  release  his  white  captives  : 
it  was  too  late,  the  crime  had  been  committed,  and 
only  the  child  was  still  alive.  Around  the  unruffled 
saint  whirled  a  saraband  of  infuriated  negroes, 
clamouring  to  tear  him  in  pieces  there  and  then. 
Among  the  blacks  was  a  deserter,  a  rifleman,  who  had 
lived  in  the  towns  and  there  had  learnt  the  meaning  of 
the  word  Christian.  He  explained  it  to  the  others 
with  great  bursts  of  laughter  and  contortions,  and  then 
proposed  that  the  white  sorcerer  should  be  crucified 
like  his  God.  The  savages  erected  a  cross.  They  then 
laid  the  saint  upon  it  and  the  torture  began.  Two 
large  nails  were  driven  through  his  hands  without 
wresting  a  single  complaint  from  him.  His  face  did 
not  contract;  with  closed  eyes  he  waited,  thinking  of 
a  similar  torture,  and  his  lips  still  gave  thanks  to  his 
Divine  Master.  He  may,  however,  have  been  on  the 
point  of  fainting  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood, 
when  a  great  noise  was  heard  at  the  entrance  of 
the  village  and  firing  broke  out.  It  was  the 
Pahouins  who,  warned  of  the  capture  of  the  saint, 
had  taken  up  arms,  crossed  the  N'Tem  and  come  to 
rescue  him. 

A  terrible  fight  raged  among  the  huts  and  the  palm- 
groves.  The  Essobams  and  their  followers,  for  the 
moment  taken  by  surprise,  entrenched  themselves 
behind  the  stockades,  loaded  their  flintlocks,  and  del- 
uged their  assailants  with  arrows  and  assegais.  The 
loyal  natives,  whose  ranks  had  been  joined  by  militia- 
men, impetuously  rushed  forward,  shooting,  jabbing 
with  their  lances,  and  a  dreadful  hand-to-hand  fight 
ensued  right  inside  the  houses,  through  whose  shat- 
tered doors  came  the  clamouring  of  slaughter.  But 
for  the  intervention  of  the  saint,  the  rebels  would  have 
been  massacred  to  the  last  man. 

On  the  next  day  the  victorious  Pahouins  re-entered 


22  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Oyem,  bringing  back  their  friend,  and  for  weeks  after- 
wards the  coloured  covers  of  the  illustrated  papers 
displayed  the  scene  in  all  the  booksellers'  windows 
and  kiosks  in  France  :  the  miraculous  return  of  Saint 
Magloire,  holding  the  rescued  child  in  his  bleeding 
hands,  as  Saint  Antony  or  Saint  Joseph  are  pictured 
holding  the  Divine  Child. 

Francois  Dubourg  was  interviewed  once  again,  but 
as  he  laiew  nothing  more  than  he  had  read  in  the 
papers,  editors,  for  want  of  something  better,  published 
the  photograph  of  Gerard,  the  little  nephew  of  Saint 
Magloire,  who,  it  seemed,  was  very  much  like  him. 

During  the  War  Magloire  Dubourg  distinguished 
himself  in  Africa;  it  was  due  more  to  him  than  anyone 
else — more  even  than  to  the  few  detachments  at  the 
disposal  of  the  authorities — that  the  occupation  of  the 
Cameroons  was  achieved  without  losses;  and  when 
risings  occurred  on  the  Upper  Ivory  Coast  on  the 
borders  of  the  Sudan,  he  alone  was  able  to  pacify  the 
rebels.  After  peace  was  signed.  Saint  Magloire's  return 
to  France  was  announced  more  than  once.  The  letters 
which  he  continued  to  send  to  his  brother  from  time  to 
time  left  room  for  hope;  but  something  always  inter- 
vened, and  the  wonderful  old  man,  still  tireless,  took 
up  his  helmet,  his  long  drill  mantle  and  his  copper 
crucifix,  and  set  off  again,  northward,  southwa^rd, 
through  undergrov/th  or  swamp,  carrying  on  his  never 
ending  task. 

So  it  happened  that,  without  Papal  Bull  or  Papal 
Court,  Magloire  Dubourg,  son  of  an  Amberieu  trades- 
man, had  become  a  saint,  canonised  only  by  the  voice 
of  the  people,  which,  they  say,  is  the  voice  of  God. 

M.  Francois  Dubourg  knew  little  about  his  brother's 
journey.  He  had  received  nothing  from  him  but  a 
short  wire  from  Marseilles  announcing  his  early  arrival 
at  Barlincourt. 

"It  may  be  to-night  or  it  may  be  to-morrow,"  he 
explained  in  an  unsteady  voice,  but  we  must  be  ready. 

He,  who  usually  accepted  all  happenings  with  the 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  23 

same  indifferent  sniile,  seemed  quite  upset.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  idea  of  seeing  his  brother  again,  as  the 
prospect  of  playing  host  to  a  saint. 

"You  must  realise  that  it  is  a  great  event,"  he 
said,  running  his  hands  nervously  through  his  hair. 
"Everybody  will  want  to  see  him." 

The  two  young  people  listened  to  their  father. 
Yvonne  was  quite  pale,  Gerard  was  quivering  with 
excitement.  Madame  Dubourg  lost  her  head  at  once 
and  started  to  run  to  the  kitchen  to  order  the  banquet. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  now?"  her  husband, 
who  usually  left  her  a  free  hand  with  the  housekeeping, 
asked  peremptorily.  "  Stay  here !  .  .  .  My  brother 
always  had  very  simple  tastes,  and  I  am  sure  they  are 
even  more  so  now  that  his    .    .    ." 

He  hunted  with  knitted  brows  for  the  right  word. 

"...  that  his  exalted  position  imposes  new 
obligations  on  him.  You  will  be  kind  enough  to  leave 
your  silver  and  cut  glass  alone.  .  .  .  Let  us  be 
simple,  as  simple  as  possible." 

He  inspected  his  children  with  a  look  that  was  al- 
most stern  and  quite  new  to  them. 

"You,"  he  said  to  Gerard,  "will  begin  by 
changing.  .  .  .  What  on  earth  do  you  look  Hke 
with  that  shirt  open  to  the  middle  of  your  chest  ?  .  .  . 
Elegance  doesn't  matter,  but  we  must  have  decency. 
...  As  for  you,  Yvonne,  I  advise  you  not  to  laugh 
and  hum  as  you  generally  do  at  meals.  .  .  .  And 
please,  no  piano.  .  .  .  And  put  up  your  hair :  it 
looks  more  proper.    .    .    ." 

"And  what  about  the  cooking?"  Mme.  Du- 
bourg, quite  upset,  asked  timidly. 

"Simple,  as  simple  as  possible.  My  brother  is  very 
temperate." 

"We  were  to  have  had  asparagus  for  an  entree," 
said  Mme.  Dubourg  apologetically,  "and  I  ordered  an 
orange  souffle." 

M.  Dubourg  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"A     souffle!      You    must     be     mad.      Why     not 


24  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

champagne?  Nothing  more  than  a  Httle  meat,  some 
vegetables,  and  stewed  fruit.  And  very  nttle  wine. 
And  no  more  pastry  or  sweets  on  the  table  as  long  as 
Magloire  is  here;    do  you  understand?" 

The  novelist  seemed  to  enjoy  this  hectoring  attitude, 
to  which  he  was  not  accustomed. 

"Now,"  he  said,  with  a  worried  air,  "I  wonder 
whether  we  ought  not  to  re-arrange  the  house  a 
little." 

He  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  terrace,  dragging  his 
family  after  him. 

The  decorations  of  the  villa  were  eccentric  enough. 
M.  Fran9ois  Dubourg,  always  enamoured  of  sham 
rusticity  and  false  antiques,  had  furnished  his  dining- 
room  like  the  living-room  of  a  farm  or  an  inn.  It  would 
have  looked  well  enough  with  the  big  wild-cherry  wood 
chest,  the  dresser  covered  with  pewter,  the  spinning 
wheel,  and  the  table  v/ith  its  heavy  turned  legs,  if  he 
had  not  been  inspired  to  add  carved  stools  by  way  of 
seats,  and  two  massive  benches  from  a  Norman  dairy. 
No  one  had  ever  been  able  to  sit  on  them — they  were 
too  hard — and  he  had  been  obliged  to  buy  real  chairs, 
and  keep  the  others  for  show. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  novelist,  as  he  complacently 
surveyed  his  favourite  room.     "Very  dignified.    .    .    ." 

The  drawing  room  was  unobjectionable  :  it  was  the 
only  apartment,  besides  her  bedroom,  .that  Mme. 
Dubourg  had  been  able  to  furnish  as  she  liked.  All 
the  rest  of  the  house  had  been  given  over  to  an 
architect-decorator,  whom  Frangois  Dubourg  had 
known  at  Montparnasse  in  the  heroic  days  of  the  Art 
Nouveau,  and  the  artist  had  given  free  run  to  his  fancy. 

The  staircase  looked  like  an  aviary,  with  its  frieze 
covered  with  brilliantly  painted  birds  and  foliage. 
Yvonne's  room  gave  the  impression  of  an  aquarium, 
with  the  dim  light  softened  by  green  curtains,  and  no 
one  but  an  expert  would  have  recognised  a  bed  in  the 
mound  of  cushions  piled  up  in  a  corner. 

"Take  all  this  away,"  ordered  the  novelist,  passing 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  25 

from  room  to  room.  "And  the  artificial  plants,  too, 
and  the  screen.    .    .    .    Take  it  all  away.    .    .    ." 

A  pattern  of  thistles  adorned  all  the  furniture  indis- 
criminately. The  wood  was  set  in  a  zig-zag  lozenge 
design,  and  the  uncomfortable  chairs  had  high  backs 
like  choir-stalls  and  narrow  seats  like  bracket-seats  in 
a  theatre.  In  his  daughter's  room,  M.  Dubourg  made 
them  remove  a  Japanese  print  which  showed  two 
naked  women  in  a  rice  swamp. 

"And  yet,"  Mme.  Dubourg  pointed  out  with 
surprise,  "you  thought  that  quite  proper  for  a  young 
girl,  and  now  for  a  man  of  sixty    .    .    ." 

M.  Dubourg  almost  lost  his  temper  : 

"How    can    you    compare    the    two?      Yvonne    is 

not  a  saint,  she ."     Then,  seeing  that  the  child  was 

quite  distressed,  he  added,  with  a  kiss  : — 

"She  is  an  angel." 

M.  Fran9ois  Dubourg  also  noticed  that  there  were 
no  sacred  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  he  had  some,  which 
were  found  in  Adele's  room  and  in  the  attic,  hung  up 
at  random. 

"Another  crucifix  here,"  he  ordered,  pointing  to 
an  empty  panel.  "Can't  we  find  any  more?  WeU, 
go  and  buy  one.  .  .  .  Where?  How  should  I  know? 
Not  at  the  grocer's,  certainly.  .  .  .  Mother  Pele  will 
tell  you." 

At  last,  having  scoured  the  villa  from  garret  to 
cellar,  the  novelist  declared  himself  satisfied,  and  he 
kissed  the  children,  his  good  humour  quite  restored. 

"Well,  so  you  are  going  to  meet  him  after  aU, 
your  uncle  the  saint,"  he  said  to  them  in  a  voice  which 
trembled  a  little.  "I  believe  it  is  the  greatest  day  of 
my  Ufa." 

Night  had  come.  The  whole  house  was  asleep;  only 
in  the  kitchen  a  light  was  still  burning. 

The  charwoman  was  washing  up  dishes,  while  Ad^le 
carefully  sharpened  the  knives  before  she  put  them 
away. 


26  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Louis,  her  nephew,  was  seated  at  the  table  with  the 
gardener  and  their  friend  Milot,  who  had  dropped  in. 
They  were  drinking  white  wine,  dinking  glasses  each 
time  they  refilled  them.  In  a  comer  the  dog,  "Turk," 
was  sleeping  with  his  nose  between  his  paws,  his  dreams 
punctuated  with  happy  growls.  Through  the  open 
window  came  the  great  silence  of  the  fields,  and  the 
voices  of  the  three  men  resounded  in  the  night.  When 
the  cook  passed  in  front  of  the  light  her  magnified 
shadow  crossed  the  lawn  on  a  magic  white  square. 
Each  puff  of  wind  shivering  in  the  branches  brought  a 
fragrance  of  lilacs  and  pinks;  it  was  as  though  the 
night  itself  was  breathing. 

"They  have  not  eaten  much,"  said  the  char- 
woman, setting  down  the  last  pile  of  dishes.  "Wait- 
ing spoiled  their  appetite.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock 
when  they  sat  down  to  dinner;  when  it  got  so  late  I 
knew  he  wouldn't  come.  It  won't  be  before  to- 
morrow." 

Milot  sniggered,  staring  at  the  bottom  of  his  glass. 

"They  do  make  me  laugh  with  their  saint,"  he 
jeered.  "Talk  of  stuffing  people's  heads  with  non- 
sense !  Such  rot  as  thej^'ve  been  made  to  swallow  in 
the  way  of  miracles,  all  those  boobies  that  have  never 
seen  any  colonies  but  Bois-Colombes.    .    .    ." 

Adele,  who  had  just  put  on  her  glasses  to  read_the 
paper,  tiu"ned  her  head. 

"Don't  make  fun  in  that  way,  Milot,  you  know  I 
don't  like  it." 

The  gardener  drained  the  bottle. 

"Tut,  tut !  everyone  has  his  own  opinions  about 
that,"  he  said  soothingly.  "Anyhow  this  man  has 
been  jolly  useful  in  Africa;  everybody  says  so.  This 
story,  now,  about  how  the  niggers  wanted  to  crucify 
him,  that's  something  out  of  the  way,  you  know." 

Milot  had  risen  and  was  holding  on  to  the  table,  to 
prevent  his  wooden  leg  from  slipping  on  the  tiled  floor. 

"Do  you  think  they  can  stuff  my  head  fuU  of 
catechism?"  he  said,  craning  his  neck  forward.     "It's 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  27 

bad  enough  to  be  turned  into  a  blinking  sacristan, 
just  because  the  bosses  insist.  As  soon  as  I  get  out  of 
church  I  don't  beheve  anything.  .  .  .  What  about 
you,  Petit  Louis?  You're  emancipated;  do  you 
beheve  in  their  yarns  about  the  saint?  They  can't  get 
over  me,  you  know.  I  know  those  colonies,  I  did  my 
two  years'  service  in  the  desert.  I've  been  in  those 
troops,  so  you  can't  fool  me.  .  .  .  Your  Magloire — 
he  could  never  have  beaten  the  Arabs  like  we  did  at 
Timimoun,  for  aU  he's  so  clever.  You  wanted  some- 
thing more  than  fairy-tales  to  lick  those  Harka  chiefs 
with." 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  fitienne  tried  to  explain, 
""they  don't  tell  you " 

But  Milot  would  not  stop  : 

"You  may  fool  other  people  that  way,  but  you 
can't  fool  me,"  he  continued.  "It's  a  put-up  job 
with  his  brother,  a  regular  cinema  plot.  They  have 
worked  out  the  fraud  on  the  sly  and  got  it  into  the 
papers;  and  now  the  other  chap  is  coming  back  like 
a  circus  turn.  They'll  go  and  meet  him  with  a  pro- 
cession. They  think  he's  going  to  raise  the  dead  and 
get  rid  of  the  mice  and  rats;  and  he'll  only  have  to 
hold  out  his  hand  to  rake  in  the  cash.  .  .  .  That's 
what  you  don't  see,  you  folks." 

Adele  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  looked  at  the  cripple 
without  answering,  her  features  drawn  with  suppressed 
anger.  Petit  Louis,  sitting  with  his  chair  tilted  back, 
was  signalUng  surreptitiously  to  Milot  to  hold  his 
tongue,  fitienne,  to  keep  himself  in  countenance, 
was  snipping  at  a  cork. 

"Well,"  said  Milot.  "I  can  see  I  am  in  the  way. 
I  had  better  be  going.  Good-night,  everybody.  No 
offence,  Madame  Adele." 

Then  he  went  away  with  the  charwoman,  who  had 
finished  her  work.  The  tap  of  his  wooden  leg  was 
heard  on  the  steps  and  died  away  in  the  distance. 

"If  he  hadn't  left  his  leg  at  the  War  I'd  have 
given  him  a  piece  of  my  mind,"  muttered  Adele. 


28  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

She  looked  anxiously  at  her  nephew. 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  like  that?" 

"Don't  you  take  any  notice  of  what  he  says," 
answered  Louis  in  his  drawling  guttersnipe's  voice. 
"What  puts  his  back  up  is  to  hear  people  say  that 
Saint  Magloire  knows  Africa  better  than  anyone  else. 
He  wants  to  be  the  only  one  to  have  a  right  to  talk 
about  the  Colonies.  It's  just  the  same  with  the 
War,  no  one  has  any  business  to  talk  about  Verdun 
but  him." 

"He  is  a  good  chap  at  heart,"  the  gardener  de- 
clared. "Look  here,  to-morrow  you  had  better  dig 
up  that  square  at  the  end;  I  am  going  to  put  in  winter 
potatoes.  And  after  that  we'll  have  to  look  to  the 
artichokes." 

Adele  had  gone  to  the  window.  The  sky  was  dusky 
blue,  growing  transparent  under  the  rising  moon,  and 
the  light  bathed  all  the  garden,  powdering  the  path- 
ways and  outlining  the  flower-beds.  Only  the  park, 
where  the  firs  were  so  closely  crowded  together  that 
no  light  could  filter  through,  remained  dark.  A  little 
patch  of  night  crouched  under  each  clump  of  peonies 
and  fringed  the  shrubs  with  shadow.  White  carna- 
tions seemed  to  be  floating  on  the  lawn,  milky  and 
smooth  as  a  pool  of  mist. 

Somewhere  a  cricket  nibbled  at  the  silence.  A  dog 
howled  at  the  moon.  The  foliage  rustled  with  hidden 
life :    branches  cracked,  shivering.    .    .    . 

"The  saint,"  cried  Adele  in  a  stifled  voice,  stepping 
backwards. 

The  two  men,  startled,  rose  to  their  feet. 

A  dark  shape  had  indeed  appeared  at  the  end  of 
the  kitchen  garden,  clearly  outlined  against  the  lumi- 
nous night.  The  traveller,  who  had  come  through 
the  fields,  stopped  and  looked  at  the  house;  then, 
slowly,  he  lifted  his  hands  to  bless  his  sleeping  hosts. 

"Yes,  it's  he,"  murmured  Etienne,  recognising 
Magloire  Dubourg  by  his  great  height. 

All  three,  drawn  together,  gazed  at  him  with  beating 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  29 

hearts.     The  saint  moved  on  and  the  trees  hid  him 
from  view. 

"Someone  ought  to  go  and  wake  the  master  and 
mistress,"  continued  the  gardener  in  a  strangled 
voice. 

But  no  one  moved  :  they  stood  as  though  they  were 
rooted  to  the  spot.  The  gravel  wunched  under  a 
step.  .  .  .  Neither  the  men  nor  Adele  stirred.  The 
maid  waited,  her  limbs  paralysed.  Petit  Louis  looked 
ill  at  ease.  At  last  an  energetic  hand  turned  the 
knob  and  pushed  open  the  door,  which  shut  again 
with  a  bang. 

"Peace  be  with  you,"  said  the  saint  as  he  entered. 

His  broad  shoulders  filled  the  whole  doorway.  His 
head  was  bare;  his  broad  pensive  brow,  which  had 
been  shielded  from  the  sun  by  a  helmet,  was  white  as 
ivory,  but  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was  sunburnt. 
A  rough  grey  beard  covered  half  his  cheeks.  His 
eyes,  hidden  in  two  pools  of  shadow,  could  not  be 
seen. 

"Father,  Father!"  stammered  Adele,  on  her  knees. 

Louis  gazed  at  the  scene,  more  pallid  than  ever; 
the  gardener  stood  with  his  shoulders  bent,  his  cap 
shaking  in  his  hands. 

Saint  Magloire,  stooping  down,  looked  at  the  maid. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  that  enormous 
hand  seemed  to  have  no  weight. 

"Do  not  weep,"  said  the  muffled  voice.  "Nothing 
can  stand  in  the  way  of  God's  will,  but  prayer  can 
drive  away  things  of  which  man  is  afraid.  We  will 
both  pray." 

Only  Adele  could  understand  the  meaning  of  those 
words.  Her  head  dropped  to  the  window-sill,  and 
she  began  to  weep  again,  her  thin  back  shaking  with 
sobs. 

The  garden  had  grown  dim,  all  the  stars  were  sud- 
denly blotted  out.  A  dismal  wind  passed  by,  wailing, 
and  mingled  its  plaint  with  the  lament  of  the  maid- 
servant, prostrate  before  the  saint. 

c 


CHAPTER  II 

Young  Josephin  Pele,  having  filled,  the  holy  water 
stoup  and  opened  the  side  door  of  the  church,  went 
into  the  sacristy. 

"Hallo,  there's  the  duffer,"  said  Milot  as  he  caught 
sight  of  him. 

On  principle  the  doorkeeper  of  the  Aubernon  works 
detested  all  persons  reputed  to  be  rich,  whether  far- 
mers, manufacturers,  or  people  of  property.  But  since 
the  widow  Pele  had  reported  him  to  his  employers 
after  she  had  caught  him  one  evening  drinking  in  their 
kitchen  with  some  factory  girls,  he  had  transferred 
all  his  hatred  to  her;  and  as  he  could  not  pay  out  the 
mother,  he  did  his  best  to  persecute  the  son. 

Josephin,  however,  could  not  complain  of  having 
ever  been  threatened  by  Milot.  The  sacristan  never 
spoke  to  him;  he  expressed  what  he  had  on  his  mind 
in  asides,  as  though  addressing  an  invisible  audience, 
or  meditating  aloud.  In  the  same  way  the  old  colonial 
would  have  thought  himself  disgraced  if  he  had 
directly  apostrophised  the  priest,  for  whom  his^  em- 
ployers obliged  him  to  work  outside  his  hours  at  the 
factory;  he  pretended  to  ignore  his  presence,  and 
seemed  to  conduct  the  only  conversation  he  ever  had 
with  Abbe  Choisy  through  the  medium  of  his  wooden 
leg,  at  which  he  stared  hard  as  he  talked. 

"As  if  'it'  wouldn't  be  better  employed  at  school 
studying  medicine,  for  instance,  so  as  to  be  useful 
to  other  people,  instead  of  snufhng  candles  from 
morning  till  night,"  he  mumbled,  turning  his  back 
on  Josephin.  "And  it  thinks  it  can  show  off!  But 
in  the  army  it  will  just  be  good  for  emptying  pails 
— the  poor  idiot ! " 

Josephin    hypocritically    pretended    not     to    hear. 

30 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  31 

He  had  a  wide,  thick-lipped  mouth  which  was  ahvays 
smiling,  and  when  anyone  looked  him  in  the  face, 
he  giggled  foolishly,  blushing  abruptly  to  the  tips  of 
his  ears.  He  wore,  even  at  week-day  services,  a 
beautiful  red  cassock,  of  which  the  other  choir-boys 
were  jealous.  His  mother,  by  means  of  clamouring, 
recrimination,  intrigues  and  prayers,  had  contrived 
to  have  her  son  better  dressed  than  the  others. 
Young  Pele,  who  was  entrusted  with  delicate  tasks, 
began  to  fill  the  sacred  vessels,  his  yellow  brows 
puckered. 

"Go    and    ring    the    second    bell,    Josephin,"     said 

the  priest  as  he  came  in.     "We  are  late 

The  good  man  was  breathless,  for  the  road  up  to 
the  church  was  steep.  Perceiving  the  censer,  he  took 
it  in  his  hand,  blew  noisily  on  it,  then  rubbed  it  with 
his  sleeve,  thus  intimating  to  the  sacristan  that  the 
utensils  of  the  Church,  were  not  carefully  tended. 
But  Milot,  who  had  something  to  say,  was  contem- 
plating the  glossy  tip  of  his  wooden  leg. 

"There  will  surely  be  a  rare  fuss  in   Barlincourt," 

he   began    to   tell   his   leg,    "when   people   know   that 

Magloire  Dubourg  arrived  last  night  at  his  brother's." 

Father  Choisy  started. 

"What     did     you     say?'      he     exclaimed,      "the 

saint " — then    correcting    himself    at    once — • 

"M.    Dubourg's    brother    in    Barlincourt?     Are    you 
certain  ? " 

The  cripple,  being  questioned,  deigned  to  reply 
directly. 

"I  have  seen  him,"  he  asserted.  "Only  I  did 
not  speak  to  him  because  I  have  my  own  ideas." 

And  bending  his  head  again,  he  started  talking 
politics  to  his  right  shoe.  But  the  priest,  distracted, 
was  no  longer  listening. 

"What  a  business,  dear  me,  what  a  business!" 
he  stammered,  as  he  slipped  on  his  alb.  "It  is  a 
great  event,  all  Christendom  will  be  talking  of 
it And    I    have    had    no    instructions,    th* 


32  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Bishop  has  told  me  nothing After  all,  if  he 

is  a  saint,  I  owe  him  attention,  an  official  wel- 
come ....  which  ....  about  which,  after  all, 
I  haven't  a  notion  !  But  he  cannot  be  quite  a  saint, 
his  name  is  not  among  the  martyrs,  he  is  not  even 

dead That    being    so,    if    I    do    things    too 

well,  I  risk  displeasing  the  Bishop.  What  a  terrible 
alternative  ! " 

Two  callow  choristers  listened  open-mouthed  to  his 
incoherencies.  Josephin,  who  had  finished  ringing 
the  bell,  laughed  nervously,  gobbling  like  a  turkey- 
cock. 

"Shall  I  go  and  tell  mother?"  he  ventured,  "she 
would  surely  know,  she " 

The  mere  idea  of  a  possible  intervention  by  Madame 
Pele  gave  a  shock  to  his  Reverence,  who  dreaded  that 
pious  lady  above  everybody  and  everything. 

"Ah!  no,  indeed,"  he  protested.  "Be  quiet,  I 
shall  manage,  I  will  look " 

And  he  turned  hither  and  thither,  tormented  with 
uncertainty,  passing  distractedly  from  the  sacristy 
to  the  choir,  while  Milot,  who  was  pretending  to 
clean  the  floor,  said  to  his  broom  : 

"They  had  better  not  ask  me  to  sing  the  Sanctus 
and  the  Agnus  Dei,  I  flatly  refuse.     I  am  a  sacristan, 

not  a  chorister That  wasn't  in  the  bargain; 

one  man  one  job " 

Josephin,  disobeying  the  priest,  had  escaped  from 
the  sacristy  to  go  and  meet  his  mother.  It  was  his 
only  joy  to  show  himself  in  the  street  in  his  red 
cassock  and  white  surplice;  and  had  it  not  been  for 
the  objections  of  a  socialist  councillor  who  had  forced 
the  Mayor  to  interfere,  young  Pele  would  have  been 
seen  walking  about  all  day  dressed  for  High  Mass, 
even  venturing  on  the  market-place,  where  the  urchins 
from  the  secular  schools  used  to  pelt  him  with  cabbage 
stumps. 

"Mamma,  mamma!"  he  squeaked  as  soon  as  he 
caught  sight   of   Madame   Pele's   black  gown,   "there 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  33 

is  a  saint  come  to  Barlincourt,  M.  Dubourg's  brother." 

The  widow  was  a  woman  of  about  fifty,  thin, 
yellow,  and  seamed  with  wrinkles;  her  hair,  which 
she  carefully  hid  under  her  jet  bonnet  as  though  it 
were  a  sin  to  show  it,  was  still  very  black. 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  she  said  sharply  to  her  son, 
who  stood  in  terror  of  her,  "I  knew  aU  that  long 
before  you  did." 

And  with  the  simpleton  at  her  side  she  hastened 
towards  the  church,  her  hands  folded  on  her  prayer- 
book. 

"Well,  Father,"  she  said  with  an  air  of  decision, 
as  she  pushed  her  way  into  the  sacristy,  "what  are 
we  going  to  do? " 

She  always  said  "we"  when  talking  of  the  minis- 
trations of  Abbe  Choisy;  and  when  anyone  died  in 
Barlincourt,  she  would  say  quite  naturally:  "We 
took  him  the  last  Sacraments."  But  the  priest  who, 
weary  of  opposing  her,  allowed  her  to  do  as  she  liked 
in  the  parish  at  ordinary  times,  was  in  no  mood  to 
listen  to  her  advice. 

He  turned  a  furious  look  upon  her,  as  if  she  had 
proposed  something  disgraceful. 

"Madame  Pele,"  he  said  with  pursed  lips,  "I 
have  begged  you  over  and  over  again  not  to  invade 
the  sacristy  during  the  services;  I  must  renew  my 
request.  As  to  the — distinguished  person  to  whom 
you  are  alluding,  he  may  not  actually  be  a  saint,  but 
he  is  certainly  a  holy  man,   and  that  is  more  than 

enough    to    guide    my    conduct I    shall    see 

you  later,  Madame." 

The  widow,  amazed  at  this  reception,  retired  with 
profound  annoyance,  her  indignation  being  all  the 
greater  because  Milot  was  standing  in  a  corner,  con- 
templating his  stump  with  a  vindictive  smile. 

"Not   bad   for   a  priest,"   murmured   the    sacristan. 

And  he  dexterously  pushed  his  broom  against  the 
legs  of  Josephin,  who  was  passing  by  to  fetch  the 
Missal. 


34  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

In  the  church  porch  and  in  the  aisles  women  were 
chattering  excitedly.  Usually  not  more  than  five  or 
six  were  present;  to-day  there  were  nearly  twenty. 
They  had  hurried  to  the  church  dressed  as  the  news 
had  found  them,  in  their  house-jackets  and  old  shoes. 
No  sooner  did  they  catch  sight  of  Baptistine  Pele 
than  they  surrounded  her  eagerly. 

"Well,  is  it  true  what  they  are  saying?" 

The  widow,  realising  her  importance,  signified  "yes" 
by  simply  closing  her  eyes.     Then,  in  a  whisper  : 

"We  are  waiting  for  him  to  come  before  we 
begin.    ..." 

Caps  close  together,  the  worshippers  chattered  in 
hushed  tones  : 

"Did  you  ever!  ...  To  behold  a  saint  in  the 
flesh  !  Madame  Aubernon  was  saying  he  might  well 
be  Pope  some  day.  .  .  .  What  does  his  Reverence 
say?    .    .    .    Shan't  we  have  a  procession?" 

In  the  sacristy  Abbe  Choisy  was  growing  impatient, 
his  heart  thumping  with  emotion.  Ought  he  to  begin 
Mass  without  waiting  for  Saint  Magloire?  After  all, 
perhaps  he  was  not  coming.  .  .  .  Should  he  send 
one  of  the  children  to  tell  him?  That  seemed  a  queer 
step  to  take.  .  .  .  Should  he  go  himself?  That 
might  be  too  presumptuous. 

"All  the  same,  it  is  already  twenty  past  eight," 
Milot  observed  to  a  golden  chasuble  which  he  was 
putting  away. 

"Well,  children,"  said  the  priest  as  he  put  on  his 
maniple,  "it  is  time." 

Preceded  by  his  two  servers,  he  entered  the  choir 
with  eyes  cast  down,  genuflected,  then  crossed  him- 
self, facing  the  nave.  No,  the  saint  had  not  yet 
arrived. 

He  began,  "Introibo  ad  altare  Dei," 

"Ad  Deum  qui  laetificat  juventutem  meam," 
responded  Josephin  in  his  squeaky  voice. 

Alone  in  the  poultry  yard,  surrounded  by  daring 
rabbits  which  even  climbed  on  to  his  knees,  Magloire 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  35 

Dubourg,  seated  on  a  bundle  of  wood,  appeared  to  be 
dreaming.  The  sun  caressed  his  face.  Only  his  lips 
seemed  to  be  alive,  moving  imperceptibly,  as  if  stirred 
by  the  breath  of  a  prayer.    .    .    . 

Since  the  morning  there  had  been  continuous  activit}' 
around  the  King's  Domain.  About  fifty  inquisitive 
people  were  grouped  before  the  villa,  and  the  good 
wives,  between  their  errands,  came  to  ask  for  news, 
inquiring  "if  anyone  had  seen  him." 

The  Paris  papers  had  just  arrived,  and  were  full  of 
Saint  Magloire,  whose  retreat  was  not  yet  known; 
and  the  men  were  arguing  as  they  waved  the  news- 
papers. 

Some  of  the  workmen  had  stayed  away  from  the 
factory;  farmers  were  lingering  on  their  way  from 
the  fields,  all  the  old  gentlemen  of  leisure  had  come 
to  a  standstill  near  the  villa,  and  the  tradespeople 
who  made  their  deliveries  from  door  to  door  had 
ranged  their  carts  along  the  pavement.  They  were 
waiting. 

Some  urchins  clung  to  the  railings,  others  sat  astride 
the  garden  wall,  and  kept  watch. 

"Come  on — here  he  is!"  they  had  shouted  a 
dozen  times. 

At  once  there  was  a  rush  forward,  but  hitherto 
nothing  had  been  seen  but  fitienne,  with  his  spade 
over  his  shoulder,  or  the  apron  of  Adele  as  she  passed 
between  the  shrubs. 

They  had  learnt,  however,  from  Petit  Louis,  whose 
room  was  in  the  mediaeval  lodge,  that  the  Saint  had 
not  left  the  house.  The  Dubourg's  under-gardener 
was  not  popular  among  the  neighbours,  but  for  once 
they  had  all  been  trying  to  be  friendly  to  him,  and 
the  workman  Mathieu  had  offered  him  tobacco  for  a 
cigarette. 

Absurd  and  incredible  stories  were  being  circulated 
and  promptly  carried  by  the  housewives  to  the 
market-place.     For  instance,   little  Debi^vre  declared 


30  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

that  he  had  seen  the  saint  on  the  terrace,  wearing  a 
white  robe,  with  a  lamb  behind  him;  and  old  Moucron, 
to  whom  he  turned  for  confirmation,  dared  not  say 
yes  or  no.  "To  be  sure,  he  did  think  he  had  seen 
something  too.    ..." 

The  Mayor  himself,  M.  Quatrepomme,  a  tall  thin 
man  in  an  alpaca  jacket,  took  the  trouble  to  come 
along.     He  was  at  once  surrounded. 

"Well,  M.  Quatrepomme,  here's  news!" 

"Have  you  come  to  make  a  speech  to  him?" 

The  perplexed  magistrate  rubbed  his  badly-shaved 
chin  the  wrong  way. 

"I  was  just  passing  by,"  he  lied.  "I  am  going 
down  to  the  school  about  the  cistern.  I  have  to  look 
after  the  affairs  of  the  town,  you  know,  and  nothing 
else.    ..." 

He  bravely  resisted  the  temptation  even  to  glance 
through  the  railings,  and  went  off  with  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back,  wondering  whether  he  ought  to  be 
proud  of  what  was  happening  in  his  borough,  or  uneasy 
about  the  disturbance  it  was  certain  to  produce. 

M.  Dubourg,  from  his  window,  had  noticed  the 
unusual  throng  and  had  experienced  a  childish  satis- 
faction. He  had  already  rung  up  the  Jour  and  the 
Derniere  Heure  to  notify  them  of  Saint  Magloire's 
arrival ;  and  he  was  expecting  numerous  visitors,  in 
the  afternoon. 

On  ordinary  days  he  was  accustomed  to  write  all 
the  morning,  and  to  come  down  to  table  at  the  last 
minute,  very  untidy,  with  a  shooting  jacket  un- 
buttoned over  his  night-shirt;  but  to-day,  in  his 
brother's  honour,  he  had  dressed  himself  properly. 
He  made  a  great  effort  to  preserve  a  cahn  demeanour, 
but  every  gesture  betrayed  his  restlessness,  and  it  was 
useless  for  him  to  stroll  about  whistling  or  to  look 
at  the  weather  casually,  or  to  wander  from  the  terrace 
into  the  drawing  room  and  back  again. 

On  the  previous  evening  he  had  spent  quite  an  hour 
chatting  with  his  brother,  and  he  had  fully  expected 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  37 

to  carry  on  the  conversation  in  the  morning — they 
had  so  'much  to  say  to  each  other — but  the  saint  did 
not  appear. 

When  the  maid  had  come  to  do  his  room,  she  found 
the  work  already  done,  the  room  swept  and  the  bed 
made.  The  visitor  from  Africa  with  a  smile  had  told 
her  that  he  was  used  to  doing  his  own  housework. 
Afterwards,  he  had  taken  a  turn  in  the  kitchen  garden, 
had  talked  for  a  moment  with  fitienne,  and  then  had 
gone  back  to  his  room,  so  deeply  absorbed  that  he 
appeared  not  to  see  his  sister-in-law  smiling  at  him 
from  the  terrace. 

The  children  were  filled  with  joy.  Yvonne  had  run 
to  tell  the  great  news  to  the  Aubernons.  As  she  saw 
the  impression  it  made  on  them,  she  realised  for  the 
first  time  the  meaning  of  pride.  She  came  home  on 
wings.  Gerard,  who  had  gone  to  meet  her,  breathed 
triumph;  his  head  was  bare  and  the  hair  on  his  brow 
waved  like  the  young  wings  of  a  Hermes.  The  young 
people  smiled  in  silence  at  each  other,  overflowing 
with  happiness. 

They  were  in  the  dining-room  quite  half  an  hour 
before  lunch,  Gerard  wearing  a  tie  and  a  buttoned-up 
coat,  Yvonne  with  her  hair  drawn  tidily  back,  and  a 
white  chemisette  muffling  her  up  to  the  chin. 

The  modest  appearance  of  Mme.  Dubourg's  table 
had  not  been  achieved  without  much  effort :  only  one 
glass  for  each  person,  one  jug  of  water,  one  decanter 
of  wine,  sardines  in  a  glass  dish.  It  looked  like  a 
boarding-house. 

"That  will  do,"  declared  M.  Dubourg  after  a 
final  inspection. 

\\1ien  the  saint  appeared,  the  two  young  people 
stiffened  to  attention,  and  while  he  recited  the  Bene- 
dicite,  they  stood  with  bent  heads  like  the  peasants 
of  the  Angelus. 

The  beginning  of  the  meal  was  gloomy.  No  one  was 
brave  enough  to  start  a  conversation.  Everything 
that    came    into    their    heads    appeared    futile    and 


38  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

insignificant;  it  seemed  unsuitable  to  entertain  the 
Saint  with  such  idle  chatter. 

They  remained  dumb,  passing  the  dishes  by;  the 
food  choked  them.  Magloire,  on  the  other  hand,  ate 
with  a  healthy  appetite,  cutting  his  bread  into  little 
squares  like  a  peasant.     He  drank  nothing  but  water. 

The  Dubourgs  could  not  take  their  ej'^es  off  him. 
Without  admitting  it,  they  were  expecting  some 
transubstantiation,  or  some  miraculous  apparition; 
but  nothing  happened.  Marie-Louise  noticed  that 
her  brother-in-law  wore  no  cuffs,  and  that  the  buttons 
of  his  velvet  jacket  did  not  match. 

Gerard  would  have  liked  to  shout  his  enthusiasm 
and  joy  aloud. 

"Shall  I  tell  him  I  want  to  become  a  nun?" 
Yvonne  was  wondering,  her  excited  little  heart  beating 
too  fast.  But  then  she  thought  of  George  Aubemon 
and  blushed  rosy  red,  convinced  that  the  Saint  at  a 
single  glance  could  read  the  truth  in  her  face. 

Adele  waited  at  table,  making  frequent  mistakes, 
her  legs  almost  giving  way  in  her  emotion.  In  spite 
of  angry  glances  from  Mme.  Dubourg,  the  maid  was 
unable  to  take  her  eyes  off  the  saint. 

But  the  traveller  noticed  nothing;  he  ate  without 
haste,  absent-mindedly.  The  silence  dragged  on, 
became  embarrassing.  At  last,  to  show  his  family 
that  he  was  not  perturbed,  the  novelist  began  a 
conversation.  He  questioned  his  brother  about  his 
voyage. 

"Only  a  week,"  the  saint  answered.  "Besides, 
I  spent  the  whole  of  it  in  my  cabin;  for  the  only  time 
I  went  on  deck  I  was  surroimded,  tormented  with 
questions,  and  photographed  as  if  I  were  an  important 
personage." 

"But  you  are,"  Mme.  Dubourg  interrupted  clumsily. 

The  saint,  without  replying,  shook  his  head  in 
denial. 

Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  pursuing  his  own 
reflections,  he  went  on  in  a  very  gentle  voice : 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  39 

"Everything  surprises  me  here.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  found  my  old  life  again,  just  as  it  used 
to  be.  It  is  all  familiar  to  me  :  the  words  I  hear,  the 
faces  I  see  around  me,  the  trees,  everything.  .  .  . 
It  is  so  pleasant  that  I  almost  blame  myself;  I  feel 
remorseful." 

"Remorseful!"  exclaimed  M.  Dubourg.  "After 
forty  years  of  wandering,  it  seems  to  me  you  have 
earned  the  right  to  a  little  rest." 

The  saint  once  more  shook  his  white  head. 

"He  who  has  not  yet  given  all  has  done  nothing," 
said  he.  "To  devote  oneself  to  a  mission,  one  should 
have  no  ties.  To  love  one's  mother,  to  be  fond  of 
one's  home,  is  a  greater  danger  than  to  be  in  chains, 
for  no  one  can  deliver  you.  .  .  .  Our  dear  mother 
was  my  first  sacrifice.  Believe  me,  it  cost  me  a  great 
deal.  ...  I  have  often  followed  in  thought  the 
road  lined  with  elms  that  leads  to  the  cemetery  where 
she  lies  at  rest." 

Mme.  Dubourg  and  her  husband  looked  at  each 
other.  The  memory  of  the  mysterious  raven  of 
Amberieu  flashed  through  their  minds;  but  neither 
ventured  to  allude  to  it. 

The  Evangelist  was  soon  immersed  again  in  his 
thoughtful  silence,  but  they  felt  that  he  was  making 
an  effort  to  emerge  from  it.  From  time  to  time  he 
raised  his  head  and  smiled  at  them,  then  he  talked 
gaily  to  set  them  at  ease.  He  told  tales  about  his 
credulous  negroes  and  about  the  agricultural  colony 
of  Libreville,  which  he  and  the  Fathers  had  founded. 
Gerard  pictured  him  in  a  landscape  k  la  Gauguin, 
negresses  with  bright  coloured  cottons  wound  about 
their  waists,  squatting  at  his  feet. 

"Well,  do  you  intend  to  stay  in  France?"  asked 
M.  Dubourg,  growing  bolder. 

"For  some  time,  yes,"  answered  the  Evangelist, 
his  face  again  becoming  very  serious.  He,  however, 
did  not  go  on  to  tell  them  what  he  had  come  to  do. 

Dm^ing  the  meal  the  crowd  outside  the  railings  had 


40  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

continued  to  increase.  The  whole  of  Barlincourt  was 
there;  people  had  even  come  from  the  country  round. 
The  polished  bars  of  countless  bicycles  shone  along 
the  wall. 

From  time  to  time  a  friend  of  the  Dubourgs  entered 
the  garden,  mistrustfully  received  by  fitienne,  while 
the  crowd  of  idlers  poured  forth  witticisms. 

"That's  right,  go  and  ask  the  saint  to  make  you 
straight  again,"  cried  a  wag  as  old  Moucron  went  in. 

When  the  Dubourgs  rose  from  the  table,  there  were 
already  about  twenty  people  in  the  garden.  This 
seemed  to  annoy  the  saint. 

"You  have  visitors,  I  see.  I  will  leave  you,"  he 
said  to  his  brother. 

But  the  novelist  held  him  back,  almost  beseech- 
ingly. 

Among  the  visitors  were  some  people  whom  he  had 
to  be  careful  not  to  offend.  He  whispered  their  names 
to  his  brother,  pointing  them  out  one  after  the  other 
with  a  little  jerk  of  his  head. 

"The  schoolmistress,  very  nice.  .  .  .  The  fat, 
bald  man  in  the  black  coat  is  Aubernon,  the  biggest 
manufacturer  in  the  district.  Very  rich.  ...  He 
began  as  a  working  man.  It  is  likely  that  some  day 
he  will  ask  me  for  Yvonne's  hand  for  his  son,  that 
•tall,  fair  youth  who  is  standing  behind  him.  .  -.  , 
They  made  their  money  in  the  war,  you  know;  the 
marriage  would  give  them  a  step  up.  .  .  .  Hallo ! 
here  is  the  editor  of  the  '  Franc  ais,  the  paper  that  is 
publishing  my  novel;  I  simply  must  introduce  you. 
When  you  wanted  money  for  your  Lobaye  people 
during  the  year  of  the  famine,  he  sent  five  thousand 
francs." 

Magloire  Dubourg  came  down  eventually  to  the 
terrace  and  went  among  the  guests,  who,  uncertain 
what  attitude  to  adopt,  bowed  as  he  passed  by  as 
though  before  a  procession.  These  exaggerated  tokens 
of  respect  still  further  increased  his  dissatisfaction  and 
confusion.     Much  embarrassed,  he  went  and  sat  down 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  41 

on  the  kerb  of  the  well,  his  hands  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  his  velvet  coat.  He  might  have  been  taken 
for  a  rustic  sportsman. 

"An  eccentric,"  the  editor  of  the  Frangais  decided 
at  the  first  glance. 

Yvonne,  beaming  with  joy,  was  nmning  to  and 
fro,  scattering  handshakes  and  smiles.  As  she  greeted 
Georges  Aubernon  she  turned  away  her  eyes  and 
blushed  bashfully. 

The  garden  was  filled  with  spring.  The  foliage  of 
the  trees  was  a  fresh  young  green,  and  in  the  branches 
chaffinches  were  gaily  singing.  The  women  in  their 
light  frocks  gave  the  gathering  the  air  of  a  garden 
party.  The  Evangelist,  motionless,  watched  the  scene 
sadly.  People  stared  at  him  as  much  as  they  could, 
glad  to  be  allowed  to  come  so  close.  The  most  daring 
began  to  question  him. 

"We  have  often  spoken  about  you  in  my  paper," 
said  the  editor.     "You  must  have  read.    .    .    ." 

He  almost  expected  the  old  man  to  thank  him. 
.  .  .  The  schoolmistress,  who  was  accustomed  to 
think  of  the  Earth  in  terms  of  a  map  in  two  hemi- 
spheres, asked  in  a  shy  voice  how  many  times  he  had 
been  round  it.  She  had  brought  her  two  best  pupils 
with  her  by  way  of  a  reward;  and  the  two  youngsters, 
not  daring  to  move  in  their  starched  frocks,  gazed 
wide-eyed  at  the  saint.  M.  Aubernon  in  due  time 
slipped  into  the  front  row. 

He  had  a  coarse,  flabby  grey  face,  which  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  moulded  with  dirty  fingers.  He  talked 
to  the  saint  about  the  Catholic  foundation  which  he 
had  just  presented  to  Barlincourt,  the  dispensary 
which  his  wife  conducted,  and  all  the  good  that  his 
money  enabled  him  to  do.  He  seemed  to  apologise 
for  his  fortune  and  at  the  same  time  to  be  proud 
of  it.  Old  Moucron,  a  big  broken-down  peasant,  ill- 
treated  by  his  son  as  he  in  his  day  had  ill-treated  his 
father,  made  a  bow  every  time  his  eye  met  the  glance 
of  the  Evangelist;    and  as  he  straightened  himself^  he 


42  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

put  his  hand  to  his  back  with  a  groan,  as  though  he 
hoped  that  the  saint,  in  pity,  would  cure  him  on  the 
spot.  Madame  Dubourg,  seated  in  the  centre  of  a  group, 
was  giving  information  to  the  ladies  leaning  over  her. 

Frangois  Dubourg  thought  his  brother  was  too 
reserved.  He  might,  he  felt,  have  been  more  credit  to 
him  if,  instead  of  merely  lending  his  presence,  he  had 
told  stories,  original  anecdotes  about  Samory  or  the 
latest  troubles  in  the  Kong  country.  But  with  the 
advent  of  more  guests,  the  depression  of  the  saint 
only  increased. 

Suddenly  his  face  relaxed;  he  had  just  perceived 
Abbe  Choisy,  who  was  coming  forward  awkwardly, 
not  knowing  how  to  introduce  himself.  The  Evangelist 
went  to  meet  him,  and  greeted  him  so  affectionately 
that  the  priest,  in  confusion,  forgot  the  little  speech  he 
had  prepared.  Father  Choisy  would  gladly  have 
withdrawn,  having  done  his  duty  and  gratified  his 
curiosity,  but  Magloire  Dubourg  dragged  him  away 
towards  the  kitchen  garden. 

No  sooner  had  they  passed  through  the  door  than 
the  guests  visibly  became  more  cheerful.  Conversa- 
tion was  resumed,  everyone  talked  at  once;  there 
were  little  bursts  of  laughter.  Impressions  were 
exchanged  and  M.  and  Mme.  Dubourg  were  surrounded 
and  congratulated. 

"They  really  know  some  very  nice  people,"  said 
Mme.  Aubernon  to  her  son.  "You  see,  there  is 
Madame  de  Choiseul  just  arriving  with  her  companion. 
She  is  a  countess,  you  know.  ...  It  seems  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Academy  is  also  expected.    ..." 

Mme.  Pele  had  arrived  with  Abbe  Choisy;  the  poor 
man  could  not  get  rid  of  her.  She  was  in  tlie  habit  of 
giving  large  sums  to  Church  funds,  she  was  president 
of  aU  the  religious  societies  in  the  parish,  and  replaced 
broken  windows,  worn-out  surplices  and  prie-dieu. 
Moreover,  the  Bishop,  in  the  course  of  a  pastoral  visi- 
tation, had  called  her  from  the  pulpit  "our  dear 
Ibenef actress,"  so  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  treat 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  43 

he*  with  the  greatest  consideration;  but  she  made 
the  priest  pay  heavily  for  her  hberaHty.  It  was  she 
who  ruled  the  church,  lording  it  over  the  devotees 
and  the  choir  boys.  Being  inordinately  suspicious, 
she  had  had  the  pockets  of  their  cassocks  sewn  up, 
to  prevent  the  youngsters  from  taking  the  coppers 
out  of  the  offertory;  she  measured  the  wine  and 
counted  the  bits  of  charcoal  for  the  censer.  At  Mass 
she  sang  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  putting  everyone 
else  out  of  tune;  and,  after  the  service  every  Sunday, 
with  lowered  eyes,  elbows  pressed  against  her  body, 
prim  smile,  and  an  air  of  walking  on  eggs,  she  gave 
lessons  in  deportment  to  the  young  girls  of  the 
"Catechism  of  Perseverance." 

Nothing  could  be  more  full  of  pride  than  the 
modesty  of  this  woman.  She  stood  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  guests  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  stomach 
and  an  affected  simper,  and  she  talked  in  a  sibilant 
whisper,  as  though  she  were  at  confession.  At  times 
she  laughed,  but  it  was  an  insincere  little  laugh  which 
she  concealed  behind  tight  closed  lips,  correcting  its 
impropriety  by  keeping  her  eyes  bent  prudishly  on  the 
ground. 

"Yes,"  she  explained  affectedly,  "I  have  called 
a  meeting  for  six  o'clock  of  the  ladies  of  the  Congrega- 
tion of  the  Holy  Rosary,  to  give  thanks  to  the  Lord 
for  having  sent  us  this  holy  man.  The  young  girls  of 
the  Congregation  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  are  to  come 
too.    ..." 

One  by  one  the  guests  slipped  away  from  her.  Soon 
no  one  was  left  to  listen  but  Mme.  Aubernon,  who 
did  not  dare  to  escape. 

"With  all  these  good  works,"  Mme.  Pel6  explained 
with  a  sigh,  "one  does  not  stay  at  home  as  much  as 
one  would  like;  but  so  long  as  one  has  enough  time 
to  look  after  the  maid  and  say  one's  prayers  nothing 
else  matters.  My  new  girl  gives  me  a  lot  of  trouble 
all  the  same;  she  is  a  girl  of  no  class,  brought  up  by 
♦be  Assbtanc*  Publiaue.    ..." 


4,^  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Glancing  round  to  make  sure  that  no  one  coul6 
overhear  her,  she  added,  lowering  her  voice  : 

"Like  Louis,  that  nephew  of  Adele's  whom  they 
have  taken  on  here.  Is  it  wise?  Well,  to  come  back 
to  my  maid,  I  have  decided  to  bring  her  back  to  the 
Lord.  I  make  her  say  her  prayers  morning  and  eve- 
ning, and  recite  a  dozen  rosaries  in  the  afternoon  as 
well.  She  observed  the  whole  of  Lent  with  us  and  I 
have  forbidden  her  to  go  to  the  cinema " 

The  neighbours  were  taking  leave.  Old  Moucron 
and  the  workman  Mathieu  had  gone  off  quarrelling; 
the  schoolmistress  had  taken  her  pupUs  home.  When 
everyone  except  friends  had  gone,  Yvonne  served  tea; 
then  she  came  back  and  sat  down  by  Georges,  at  whom 
she  looked  with  frank  joy. 

Time,  however,  went  by  and  the  saint  did  not  re- 
appear. They  questioned  Etienne,  who  was  returning 
from  the  kitchen  garden,  and  he  answered : 

"They  are  still  talking  together,  his  Reverence 
seems  to  be  struck  aU  of  a  heap." 

There  was  still  the  same  crowd  in  the  avenue,  for 
the  loafers  had  not  yet  had  a  chance  to  see  anything. 
Several  of  them  followed  Mathieu  and  Moucron  to  the 
Cafe  Dumarchey  to  get  some  details. 

"They  will  drink  more  to-day  than  they'll  work," 
grumbled  the  hostess,  who  disliked  the  factory  hands. 

As  Milot  entered,  a  large  grey  motor  car  slowed 
do^^^l  before  the  bar. 

"Heigh;"  called  out  one  of  the  passengers,  "where 
is  the  Villa  Dubourg,  please?" 

"The  house  of  the  saint,"  added  another. 

The  cripple  looked  at  them  disagreeably,  and 
pointed  the  way  with  a  vague  nod. 

"Farther  on.    .    .    ." 

The  car  leapt  forward  and  the  beadle  shrugged  his 
shoulders  : 

"There  you  are,  the  pilgrimage  is  beginning. 
Count  your  coppers.  .  ,  .  Get  'em  ready,  slow 
music.    .    .    ." 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  45 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  journalistic  invasion- 
Other  reporters  at  the  same  time  were  arriving  by 
train. 

Francois  Dubourg,  who  was  expecting  them,  wel- 
comed them  with  open  arms.  The  best  reporters  in 
Paris  had  taken  the  trouble  to  come  down,  even  the 
great  men  who  never  exerted  themselves  except  on 
big  occasions — among  them  Jacques  de  Nointel,  a  pot- 
bellied giant,  and  a  great  specialist  in  religious  ques- 
tions, who  only  a  week  earlier  had  interviewed  the 
Pope. 

The  novelist,  who  knew  him,  paid  him  especial 
attention. 

"I'll  tell  my  brother.  ...  He  does  not  care 
for  company  at  all,  you  know,  he  is  rather  taciturn." 

The  guests  of  the  Dubourgs  gazed  curiously  at  these 
men,  whose  signatures  they  saw  every  morning  in  the 
newspapers. 

Little  Pedro  was  there,  who  had  been  in  every  war, 
in  every  revolution,  every  catastrophe,  and  whom  the 
Bolsheviks  had  nearly  shot  at  Moscow.  Hardy,  a 
former  photographer,  turned  journalist,  who  seemed 
to  know  nothing  and  yet  understood  ever}i;hing,  was 
also  present;  and  Princet  who  poured  into  the  articles 
that  he  scribbled  in  trains  and  hotel  bedrooms  more 
emotion,  imagination  and  wit  than  a  novelist  can  get 
into  ten  volumes.  Among  others  were  old  Bellieres, 
who  owed  all  his  notoriety  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
present  at  ninety-one  executions,  among  which  were 
three  hangings — and  Bemheim,  the  editor  of  the 
"Boulevard,"  correct  to  the  point  of  affectation,  who 
could  not  interview  people  more  than  once,  since  he 
delighted  in  tearing  them  to  pieces  with  little  biting 
phrases,  his  merciless  eyes  discovering  at  a  glance 
the  very  things  his  victim  was  trying  hardest  to  hide; 
and  also  Cassini,  deaf  as  a  post,  blind  as  a  bat,  garru- 
lous and  irrepressible,  who  by  some  miracle  contrived 
after  all  to  make  sense  out  of  his  notes.  All  these 
were  men  who  had  to  discuss  metallurgy  one  day  and 

D 


46  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

foreign  politics  the  next;  to  wax  emotional  at  one 
moment  over  a  fire-damp  explosion,  and  at  another 
to  pour  abuse  upon  a  bankrupt.  And  to  deal  with  all 
this  on  the  instant,  without  a  second  to  collect  their 
thovights,  without  documents,  punctuating  their  text 
with  telegraphic  "stops" — to  be  judged  a  few  hours 
later  by  half  a  million  readers,  a  large  number  of  whom 
understood  these  questions  far  better  than  they  did. 

Behind  them,  almost  apart,  stood  two  beginners, 
one  none  too  well  groomed.  On  the  terrace  the  photo- 
graphers were  setting  up  their  cameras. 

"Bom  at  Amberieu  in  1866,  wasn't  he?"  inquired 
Pedro  without  waiting. 

Foimtain  pens  and  pencils  made  their  appearance. 
The  journalists  were  writing.  Each  had  brought  a 
ready-made  opinion  to  Barlin court,  some  prepared  to 
admire,  others  to  reserve  their  judgment.  Jacques  de 
Nointel,  who  had  a  greater  reputation  to  live  up  to 
than  the  others,  had  carefully  prepared  his  interview, 
as  if  he  had  been  entrusted  with  the  canonisation  of  the 
saint.  He  had  met  at  the  Vatican  a  Father  from  the 
African  Missions  of  Lyons,  who  was  a  great  admirer 
of  Magloire  Dubourg,  and  had  heard  from  him  some 
startling  anecdotes  out  of  which  he  hoped  to  make  a 
unique  story.  Bemheim,  suddenly  watchful,  had 
noticed  that  Frangois  Dubourg,  usually  so  noisy  and 
jovial,  was  now  rubbing  his  hands  like  a  bishop  on  the 
stage.  The  journalist  had  followed  Adele  to  the  kitchen 
to  hear  the  story  of  the  Saint's  arrival.  By  this  time 
the  photographers  were  going  round  the  drawing 
room,  wondering  whether  they  would  be  able  to  take  an 
interior  without  a  flash-light,  and,  promptly  making 
themselves  at  home,  they  began  to  remove  the  plants 
which  interfered  with  the  light,  while  one  of  them, 
by  dint  of  pulling  at  the  ropes  of  the  double  curtains 
succeeded  in  breaking  them. 

"Here  comes  my  brother,"  said  the  novelist, 
running  in  from  the  garden. 

The  journalists  grouped  themselves  on  the  terrace. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  47 

The  saint  was  approaching  slowly.  He  was  bare- 
headed and  wore  a  priest's  cape  thrown  over  his 
shoulders  (a  Lazarist  at  Marseilles  had  given  it  him 
because  his  coat  had  disappeared  with  his  luggage), 
and  he  was  looking  at  the  new-comers  with  anger  and 
surprise.  A  cinema  operator,  leaning  against  the  well, 
began  to  turn  his  crank. 

"Not  so  fast,  if  you  please,"  he  cried  to  the  Evan- 
gelist. .  .  .  "Stop  one  moment.  .  .  .  Head  this 
way.    .    .    ." 

The  photographers,  hugging  their  heavy  cameras, 
were  taking  snap-shots,  cUcking  against  time. 

"He  is  making  a  careful  entry,"  scoffed  Bem- 
heim,  in  an  undertone. 

Indeed,  the  appearance  of  this  queerly  dressed  old 
man  in  the  midst  of  guests  drawn  up  in  line,  with  the 
big  dog  growling  at  his  heels,  had  about  it  something 
stagey  and  artificial. 

M.  Frangois  Dubourg  was  pushing  his  brother  before 
him. 

"You  can  at  least  say  a  few  words  to  them,"  he 
whispered  in  his  ear.     "Do  it  for  my  sake." 

As  soon  as  he  got  into  the  di-av.'ing  room,  the  jour- 
nalists crowded  roimd  him.  Their  staring  eyes — like 
cameras — focused  him.  All  the  faces  were  serious 
now  :  before  that  glance  none  would  have  dared  to 
smile.  The  eyes  of  the  saint  were  blue-grey,  sur- 
prisingly pale;  their  gleam  of  fervour,  their  serene 
flame,  dominated  the  emaciated  countenance.  The 
lids  were  wasted  by  sun,  or  fever,  or  tears.  Little 
Pedro  was  reminded  of  the  inspired  eyes  of  his  Russian 
Mihilists.  Nointel  thought  of  Leo  XHL  As  for  the 
badly  dressed  beginner,  who  was  standing  at  the  back 
to  hide  his  shoes,  he  simply  concluded  : 

"The  man  drinks." 

Hardy,  the  reporter-photographer,  employing  his 
favourite  method,  which  he  called  "  Knocking  the  wind 
out  of  people,"  asked  unceremoniously,  "Why  do  they 
call  you  the  saint?" 


48  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

The  traveller,  probably  shocked  by  such  a  question, 
stared  at  him. 

The  others,  full  of  curiosity,  waited  : 

"Why?  I  do  not  know  in  the  least,  sir.  Maybe 
in  mockery,"  he  answered  in  his  deep  veiled  voice, 
"  I  never  desired  such  a  title,  and  it  distresses  me  when 
people  apply  it  to  me.  I  am  only  a  man  who  is  de- 
voted to  his  faith  and  nothing  more.    .    .    ," 

Pedro  intervened  : 

"We  apologise  for  coming  in  this  way  to  disturb' 
you  in  your  retreat,  when  you  must  need  rest  so  badly; 
but  the  public  loves  you  and  it  wants  to  be  told  about 
you,  and  that  must  excuse  our  indiscretion.  Now,  can 
you  tell  us  what  is  the  object  of  your  return  to  France, 
and  if  you  mean  to  stay  here?  Have  you  given  up 
your  mission  in  Africa?" 

The  Evangelist,  provoked  by  these  questions,  shook 
his  head,  and  remained  silent. 

"I  beg  of  you,"  he  answered  after  a  moment,  "not 
to  question  me.  Later  on,  I  shall  probably  have  need 
of  you,  but  not  now.  I  don't  want  people  to  bother 
about  me.  There  are  others  who  are  far  more  worthy 
of  your  attention.  Look  here,  I  came  back  from 
Africa  with  the  Reverend  Father  Meunier  of  the 
Lazarists.  You  had  much  better  go  to  him;  he  is  a 
very  learned  man,  who  will  be  able  to  tell  you  much 
more  interesting  things  than  I  can." 

"No,"  Nointel,  who  was  experienced  in  making 
Churchmen  talk,  artfully  protested,  "if  only  in  the 
interests  of  religion  you  ought  to  keep  in  touch  with 
the  public.  You  are  popular — and  with  good  reason 
— and  certain  words  coming  from  you  would  be  listened 
to,  whereas  coming  from  others  they  would  carry  no 
weight." 

But  Saint  Magloire  did  not  give  in  : 

"No  really,  your  insistence  is  torture  to  me.  Not 
now.     Later.    .    .    ." 

The  little  badly-dressed  reporter,  who  had  been  silent 
till  then,  suddenly  summoned  up  courage : 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  49 

"All  the  same,"  he  insisted  in  his  lisping  voice, 
"you  would  do  us  a  jolly  good  turn  if  you  would  tell  us 
something  about  your  plans,  so  that  we  don't  go  back 
empty-handed.  .  .  .  Ask  my  colleagues  whether  that 
isn't  so.  I  am  not  speaking  for  those  who  are  paid 
by  the  month,  but  for  us  penny-a-liners." 

Nointel  had  put  up  his  eye-glass  and  haughtily 
scanned  this  humble  comrade.  All  the  others  looked  a 
little  sheepish.  Yet  this  naive  argument  appealed  to 
the  saint. 

"Ah!  really,"  he  murmured,  "that  might  be  doing 
you  a  service.    .    .    •" 

For  a  few  moments  he  remained  lost  in  thought,  as 
if  still  hesitating,  then  he  made  up  his  mind.  He 
lifted  his  head  and  asked  quietly  : 

"Why  do  you  never  mention  God  in  your  articles?" 

Taken  aback  by  this  absurd  question,  they  looked 
in  astonishment  at  the  saint  and  at  one  another, 

"What  does  he  say?  What  does  he  say? "  spluttered 
Cassini,  loath  to  believe  the  testimony  of  his  deaf  ears. 

Bemheim  bit  his  thin  lips. 

"Yes,"  he  jested  under  his  breath,  "a  nice  little 
topic  for  the  news  columns  of  the  Boulevard ! " 

The  saint  noticed  their  surprise. 

"That  seems  strange  to  you,  doesn't  it?"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  harsh  voice.  "But  tell  me,  why  do  you 
suppose  I  came  to  Europe,  if  not  to  speak  of  Him? 
Did  you  believe  that  after  forty  years  spent  in  Africa, 
scorched  by  fever,  with  my  limbs  scarred  by  wounds, 
having  redeemed  thousands  of  souls  through  my  efforts 
and  sometimes  at  the  cost  of  blood,  I  should  suddenly 
have  abandoned  everything,  forsaken  the  source  of  my 
purest  joys,  run  away  from  my  task — in  a  word,  de- 
serted— to  come  over  here  and  end  my  days  in  peace 
like  a  retired  shop-keeper?  You  despised  me  in  your 
hearts  even  while  you  showered  undeserved  praise 
upon  me.  My  task  is  not  ended  :  it  has  only  begun. 
You  inquired  just  now  about  the  object  of  my  journey. 
Here  it  is :   to  save  the  world." 


50  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

This  sudden  attack  startled  them.  However,  they 
quickly  regained  their  composure  and  seized  on  his 
words,  jotting  down  notes  for  reference  on   their  pads. 

"So  then,"  said  Princet,  who  was  the  first  to  stop 
writing,  "you  intend  to  carry  on  your  mission  in 
France?     To  undertake  Catholic  Propaganda?" 

The  saint  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  have  come  to  dictate  God's  law  to  men. 
This  society,  built  on  selfishness  and  hatred,  has  lived 
too  long.  God  wishes  to  re-enter  His  kingdom.  I 
have  been  told  to  come  and  preach  goodwill;  I  have 
come." 

The  journalists  looked  at  him  questioningly;  they 
did  not  yet  understand. 

"But  who  told  you  this?"  Pedro  asked  timidly. 

Magloire  Dubourg  gazed  fixedly  at  him  and  made 
no  reply. 

They  felt  disquieted.  None  dared  take  up  the 
question.  They  all  realised  Who  was  the  supreme 
Master  from  Whom  the  order  had  come,  and  a  sudden 
constraint  held  them  back  from  mockery.  They 
waited,  overcome. 

"You  were  surprised,  were  you  not,  when  I  asked 
you  why  you  never  spoke  of  God?  But  have  you 
never  thought  that  He  alone  can  save  this  world  which 
wallowed  in  blood  through  five  years  of  war  and  has 
now  arisen  staggering    .    ,    .  ? " 

He  spoke  with  an  ardour  which  drove  his  words 
home,  and  his  commanding  glance  seemed  to  rivet 
them  into  the  minds  of  the  journalists. 

"They  ought  to  be  cried  from  the  house-tops, 
the  sublime  words  of  Christ :  '  Love  one  another.'  It 
is  those  words  which  will  prevent  the  final  catastrophe 
when  everything  crumbles  away.  Look  about  you, 
open  your  eyes,  open  your  hearts.  Can  this  cruel  and 
stupid  society  go  on  living,  perpetually  setting  the 
blind  selfishness  of  some  against  the  base  envy  of 
others?  Can  this  abject  duel  of  appetites  and  desires 
last  any  longer?    ,    .    .    What  are  your  human  lawg 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  51 

built  on?  Tell  me  that.  On  fear  !  That  is  the  ruler 
of  your  civilised  world.  Fear !  You  condemn  the 
murderer  because  you  fear  for  your  life;  you  condemn 
the  thief  for  fear  of  your  goods;  you  only  spare  others 
for  fear  of  what  they  may  one  day  do  to  you.  .  .  . 
But  joi  true  justice,  of  goodwUl,  there  is  no  trace. 
.  .  ".  It  is  always  the  horrible  law  of  vengeance 
which  governs  both  men  and  nations.  The  law  which 
has  produced  nothing  but  misery  and  death,  which 
has  exhausted  the  conquerors  and  bruised  the  con- 
quered.   ..." 

The  journalists  were  taking  notes,  feverishly,  as 
they  would  have  done  for  a  Ministerial  oration  or  a 
brilliant  speech  in  Court.  The  saint,  as  his  enthu- 
siasm burned  brighter,  began  to  speak  more  rapidly; 
and  they  seized  his  words  on  the  wing,  without  taking 
time  even  to  understand  them. 

"No  wave  of  barbarism  must  be  allowed  to  sweep 
away  aU  that  human  genius  has  taken  so  many  cen- 
turies to  build  up.  Humanity  must  not  sink  back 
into  the  primal  mire  and,  weighed  down  with  mud, 
take  up  again  its  slow  ascent  towards  a  happiness  it 
never  attains.  Christ  is  here,  quite  close  :  let  us  hold 
out  our  arms  to  Him.  It  is  in  His  Name  that  I  have 
come  to  cry  :  '  Love  one  another  ! '  and  I  wiU  reveal 
hidden  truths  that  wiU  unseal  the  eyes  of  the  blindest 
and  bring  about  the  reign  of  universal  love  on  earth." 

They  raised  their  heads,  their  eyes  full  of  questions. 
The  last  words  had  struck  them  all.  What  secret 
truths  was  he  going  to  disclose  to  them?  Did  the 
wanderer  really  believe  himself  to  be  a  messenger  of 
God?  The  less  hardened  among  them  were  strangely 
disturbed;  with  beating  hearts  they  awaited  the 
revelation.     But  the  Evangelist  was  silent. 

"That  is,  of  course  .  .  .  religious  truths  .  .  . 
Divine  truths  which  you  intend  to  reveal?"  Pedro 
ventured  to  ask. 

The  Evangelist  did  not  answer.  Jacques  de  Nointel 
urged  him  ; — "Only  the  press  could  make  them  known 


52  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

to  the  whole  world  at  once.  .  .  .  That  is  what  we 
have  come  for  and  we  fully  realise  the  importance  of 
our  mission.    ..." 

The  others,  who  were  eager  for  information,  as- 
sented. Bemheim  alone  was  again  smiling  his  sceptic's 
smile.    The  traveller  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  cannot  say  an5rthing  at  present.  It  was 
just  because  I  wanted  to  avoid  any  premature  declara- 
tions that  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you.  I  am  only  a 
humble  son  of  the  Church,  and  it  is  my  duty  before 
speaking  to  confer  with  some  of  its  heads.  Then  I 
will  willingly  answer  you,  but  not  before." 

The  journaUsts  were  disappointed.  Without  this 
climax  their  articles  would  fall  fiat.  Their  self- 
possession  began  to  come  back. 

"I  say,  he  is  not  encouraging,  this  prophet  of 
yours,"  Bemheim  whispered  to  Nointel;  "he's  a 
regular  Jeremiah." 

But  the  interviewer  of  Cardinals  would  not  acknow- 
ledge himself  defeated.  After  glancing  through  his 
notes,  he  asked  cunningly  : 

"Do  you  intend  to  advocate  any  important  social 
reforms  ? " 

Magloire  Dubourg  looked  at  Nointel,  discerning  the 
trap  that  was  set  for  him. 

"To  hate  nothing  and  to  envy  nothing,"  ^he 
answered  simply,  "such  wiU  be  the  new  law  by  which 
the  world  wiU  live.  Men  will  no  longer  feel  envy  when 
they  understand  that  each  in  turn  will  have  his  chance; 
they  will  no  longer  hate  one  another  when  they  know 
that  each  is  alone  responsible  for  his  own  happiness." 

They  guessed  that  these  words  held  a  hidden  mean- 
ing, which  they  would  have  been  glad  to  miderstand. 

"You  mean  happiness  hereafter?"  queried 
Nointel. 

Again  the  saint  made  no  reply. 

"In  short,"  said  Bemheim  disdainfully,  "you 
subordinate  everything  to  faith  in  God?" 

"Everything,"   replied  the  saint  emphatically,  and 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  53 

his  glance  forced  the  other  man  to  lower  his  eyes.  "  If 
men  refuse  to  believe  in  Him,  let  them  slaughter  each 
other  like  animals;  it  will  only  be  a  preparation  for  the 
Divine  chastisement  that  will  follow.  If  you  do  not 
believe  that  you  possess  an  immortal  soul,  kill,  loot, 
disgrace  yourselves  :  you  have  at  least  as  much  right 
to  do  these  things  as  hogs  and  wild  beasts.  What  is 
it  that  constrains  you  to  be  kind  to  your  fellow-men? 
Is  it  only  because  you  all  express  yoiirselves  by  the 
same  kind  of  grunts?  that  all  your  snouts  are  alike 
and  that  you  all  walk  on  two  legs?  If  you  deny 
the  soul,  what  law  forces  you  to  respect  the  human 
beast  more  than  any  other?" 

A  vague  gesture  expressed  Bemheim's  scepticism. 

"Oh!"  said  he,  "the  soul,  the  soul.    ..." 

"Yes,  the  soul,"  the  saint  repUed  fiercely,  bran- 
dishing the  word  like  a  torch.  "  It  is  because  it  has 
despised  its  soul  that  your  unbelieving  world  is  sinking 
into  the  mud.  If  man  would  but  listen  to  his  sovJ 
and  believe  in  God,  the  rich  would  not  be  oppressing 
the  poor,  and  the  poor  would  not  be  dreaming  of 
bloody  retaliation;  we  should  not  see  the  strong 
nations  enslaving  the  weaker,  peoples  and  individuals 
dreaming  of  nothing  but  plunder.  But  if  they  are 
not  afraid  of  a  judge,  if  they  believe  that  after  a  single 
life  on  earth  they  return  into  the  void,  they  are  right 
to  indulge  in  a  surfeit  of  pleasures,  to  demand  un- 
restrained enjoyment,  and  the  poor  are  only  senseless 
dupes  not  to  snatch  happiness  even  at  the  cost  of 
murder.  .  .  .  There  is  no  more  faith,  you  say. 
WeU,  then,  make  way  for  the  animal  instincts,  let 
loose  desire,  and  allow  the  mob  to  overthrow  its 
masters  and  gorge  itself  in  its  turn." 

Princet  was  the  only  one  who  was  not  writing.  He 
was  gazing  at  the  saint,  trying  to  see  into  his  mind, 
while  the  others  were  taking  down  his  words. 

"But,"  he  protested,  "the  most  Christian  coun- 
tries have  no  more  sense  of  equity  than  the  others, 
and  social  injustice  was  just  as  bad  in  the  days  when 


54  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

France  called  herself  the  Eldest  Daughter  of  the 
Church." 

"It  is  not  enough  to  hang  crucifixes  on  the  walls 
of  the  law  courts,  you  must  have  Christ  in  your 
hearts,"  replied  the  Evangelist. 

The  shabby  beginner,  quite  disheartened,  had  col- 
lapsed on  to  a  sofa. 

"It's  no  use,  I  canno*  foUow  this,"  he  said,  as  he 
put  his  pencil  away.  "I  cannot  understand  a 
word.    ..." 

And,  turning  to  his  colleague,  he  added  : 

"You'll  lend  me  your  notes,  won't  you?" 

The  saint,  as  he  talked,  was  looking  at  them 
with  a  luminous  and  piercing  glance  that  hurt 
them. 

"Mind  hsLS  kiUed  the  soul,"  he  went  on.  "They  are 
like  two  scorpions,  one  of  which  will  have  to  devour 
the  other.  .  .  .  You  no  longer  believe  in  God,  but 
you  believe  in  something  worse,  in  nothingness.  You 
are  freethinkers,  and  you  smile  at  the  idea  of  a 
Creator  Vvlio  has  always  existed  and  will  live  for  ever, 
but  you  believe  in  a  limitless  universe  where  thou- 
sands of  heavens  spread  out  into  the  infinite,  with  no 
boundary  in  space  to  confine  this  soaring  edifice  that 
has  neither  foundation  nor  coping-stone.  .  .  .  You 
may  invent  elaborate  systems,  explore  the  history  of 
man  and  always  find  some  still  lower  being  from  whom 
to  trace  his  descent,  an  animal,  a  molecule,  an  embryo; 
yet  each  hypothesis  brings  you  to  a  fresh  enigma. 
There  always  comes  a  moment  when  you  can  explain 
nothing  more,  when  all  is  dark  and  doubtful.  .  .  . 
It  is  there  tliat  God  is  waiting  for  you,  you  will  always 
encounter  Him  at  the  end  of  each  speculation.  If  you 
refuse  to  believe  in  Him,  you  must  live  in  impenetrable 
darkness,  in  the  heart  of  a  mysterious  world  that 
admits  of  no  explanation,  beneath  whose  shifting 
surface  your  science  cannot  reach.    ..." 

Hardy,  too,  with  an  impatient  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  had  ceased  to  take  notes. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  55 

"There  you  are.  Now  he's  started  on  philosophy," 
he  grumbled.  "How  on  earth  can  I  send  in  an  article 
on  the  existence  of  God?" 

Old  Belli^res  agreed  under  his  breath  : 

"He  had  much  better  tell  us  about  his  crucifixion. 
.    .    .    Upon  my  word,  I've  never  seen  one.    ..." 

The  Evangelist's  heart  filled  with  pity  for  their 
bhndness. 

"Why  must  your  heads  be  so  full  and  your  hearts 
so  empty?"  he  continued.  "Listen.  ...  I  knew 
a  black  chief  in  Nenoue,  whose  sons  had  all  been  killed 
in  battle  and  he  had  suffered  very  deeply  from  their 
loss.  The  memory  of  his  dead  children  never  left 
him;  for  years  it  tortured  him.  Then,  to  prevent 
himself  from  thinking  about  it,  he  added  to  his  suite 
two  slaves  whose  duty  it  was  throughout  his  waking 
hours  to  beat  drums,  rattle  baskets  of  shells  and  emit 
discordant  howls  whenever  they  saw  their  master  lost 
in  thought.  He  imagined  the  noise  would  drive  away 
the  evil  spirit.  .  .  .  Well,  you  are  all  like  that 
superstitious  negro.  In  order  to  drive  out  of  your 
minds  the  terrible  enigma  of  the  Beginning  and  the 
End,  to  avoid  thinking  about  the  Hereafter,  you 
stupefy  yourselves  with  words,  you  build  up  theories, 
you  stuff  phrases  and  formulas  into  every  crack 
through  which  a  doubt  might  enter.  .  ,  .  You 
flourish  your  poor  ideas  like  a  baby's  rattle  so  that 
you  may  try  to  drown  the  frightened  voice  of  your 
souls  which  reminds  you  that  God  is  waiting.  But 
sorrow  is  still  in  the  heart  of  the  King — like  the  fear 
in  your  souls — however  loud  the  two  slaves  beat  their 
hands  together  and  strike  their  tambourines.  Noise 
may  stun,  it  cannot  restore  confidence." 

There  was  complete  silence.  The  saint's  impas- 
sioned voice  had  penetrated  deeper  than  their  minds 
and  at  last  had  reached  their  hearts. 

"Noise  may  stun,  it  cannot  restore  confidence," 
repeated  Pedro,  abbreviating  the  words  as  he  wrote 
them  down,    .    .    .    "That's  very  good.    ..." 


56  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

The  others  who  were  two  sentences  behind  were 
scribbling  hastily.  Bernheim,  the  only  one  using 
shorthand,  had  already  raised  his  head. 

"It  is  true,  people  go  less  and  less  to  church,"  he 
said,  nodding  his  head  as  though  the  admission  really 
distressed  him.  "In  proportion  as  science  progresses, 
religion  loses  its  authority  ! " 

"Which  religion?"  growled  Nointel,  who  did  not 
like  the  Jew.     "Not  his  in  any  case!" 

"Only  old  women  go  to  church  nowadays,"  went 
on  Bernheim.  "Modern  children  are  brought  up 
without  any  belief.  .  .  .  Well,  then" — suddenly 
launching  his  treacherous  question — "will  these  un- 
lucky youngsters  be  held  responsible  for  their  lack  of 
religion?     WiU  God  condemn  them?" 

The  Evangelist  looked  at  this  crafty  man. 

"Ask  the  priests  that,"  he  answered;  "  I  always  seek 
advice  from  them  in  matters  that  I  don't  understand." 

This  evasion  put  Bernheim  off  the  track,  but  his 
keen  mind  soon  recovered  it. 

"By  the  way,  how  is  it  that  with  faith  and  tastes 
like  yours  you  did  not  enter  the  priesthood  ? " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Magloire  Dubourg,  still 
on  his  guard.  "If  God  had  foxmd  me  worthy.  He 
would  have  sent  me  the  inspiration.    ..." 

Now  that  his  exaltation  had  died  down,  the  Evan- 
gelist was  giving  his  answers  in  a  weary  voice.  He 
made  no  reply  at  all  to  the  next  question. 

"No,  really,  gentlemen,  I  have  nothing  else  to 
tell  you.    ..." 

The  journalists  were  still  hoping  that  he  would  revert 
to  the  mysterious  revelations  he  had  foreshadowed, 
but  the  Evangelist  clearly  did  not  want  to  talk  any 
more.     He  was  exhausted. 

Behind  him,  the  window  flamed  in  the  setting  sun, 
and  the  outline  of  his  tall  figure  stood  out  against  the 
light,  as  on  stained  glass.  In  the  centre  of  his  open 
palms  the  scars  of  the  nails  glowed  like  two  rosy 
stains. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  57 

"Our  dear  colleague,  Francois  Dubourg,  must  be 
very  happy  to  have  you  back  at  last,"  Jacques  de 
Nointel  said  cordially  as  he  took  his  leave.  "You 
bring  happiness." 

"Happiness,"  repeated  the  Saint  absently,  "^^'^lo 
knows.  ...  I  feel  so  sad  that  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  Death  had  entered  here  with  me.    .    ,    .'' 

And  from  the  top  step  of  the  terrace  he  watdied 
them  go. 


CHAPTER  III 

"Barlincourt,  Where's  that?" 

"T^v^  hours  by  train,  so  the  Frangais  saya  He 
arrived  there  the  other  night." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  his  picture." 

The  housewives,  who  had  foregathered  in  the  dairy, 
leaned  over  the  open  paper  and  looked,  thrilled  and 
curious,  at  the  photograph.  Even  the  shopworaan 
stopped  serving  her  customers,  and  set  down  her 
measure  on  the  white  marble;  all  listened  to  the 
reader. 

"This  single  sentence:  'I  have  come  to  save  the 
world,'  clearly  shows  that  the  popular  traveller  in- 
tends to  continue  in  France  the  mission  that  he  has 
carried  on  in  Africa;  we  shall  await  with  interest  the 
revelations  which  he  has  so  mysteriously  aimounced. 
It  is  certain  that  Magloire  Dubourg  has  not  left  Africa 
for  France  without  serious  reasons." 

"Well,  I  think,"  a  woman  broke  in,  "that  he  has 
come  to  ask  the  deputies  to  let  the  Little  Sisters  come 
to  France." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  dair^nvoman  confidently,  "it's 
about  political  affairs  with  the  English." 

The  others  lost  patience. 

"Do  listen.     Let  her  go  on  reading." 

The  editor  gave  a  fairly  accurate  report  of  the  saint's 
words,  but  as  his  paper  was  a  Government  organ,  he 
had  passed  over  in  silence  the  Evangelist's  attacks  on 
the  French  colonial  administration.  Moreover,  since 
his  circulation  of  a  mUlion  and  a  half  depended  chiefly 
upon  the  masses,  he  had  omitted  anything  that  re- 
motely resembled  a  new  idea  and  had  skilfully  evaded 
all  religious  pronouncements,  in  order  not  to  clash 
with  the  convictions  of  anyone. 

58 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  59 

The  daily  papers  had  devoted  ahnost  the  whole  of 
their  front  page  to  the  saint,  with  large  photographs 
showing  him  surrounded  by  his  relatives,  or  on  the 
terrace,  bareheaded,  with  his  priest's  cape  over  his 
shoulders. 

"Magloire  Dubourg  States  that  God  has  sent  him  to 
Reform  the  World,"  was  the  sub-title  in  the  Tribune. 

The  Echo  de  France  displayed  the  headline  : 

"Saint  Magloire  intends  to  make  Sensational  Dis- 
closures." 

"Apostle  or  Visionary  .^"  asked  the  Socialist  Cri 
Public.  Lastly,  the  Illusire  wrote  above  its  ten 
photographs:  "The  Prophet  Predicts  Disaster"  and 
underneath,  as  a  caption,  the  sayings  of  Magloire 
Dubourg  :  "  A  Storm  of  Unparalleled  Violence  Threatens 
the  World." 

The  articles  on  the  whole  were  favourable,  and  re- 
flected the  admiration  of  the  journalists.  Jacques  de 
Nointel,  in  the  Quotidien,  recalled  past  miracles  and 
asserted  that  the  Evangelist  had  more  surprises  in 
store,  "for  his  pierced  hands  could  only  be  outstretched 
in  deeds  of  wonder." 

"He  is  going  to  heal  the  sick,"  a  broken  old  voice 
in  the  shop  declared. 

The  dairywoman  resumed  her  work,  filUng  little 
bowls  with  chocolate  which  the  workmen  drank  stand- 
ing. The  woman  with  the  newspaper  continued  her 
reading  in  a  lower  voice,  blundering  over  the  difficult 
words;  and  the  admiring  housewives  listened  to  the 
strange  names  of  countries  where  the  saint  had  worked 
his  miracles,  against  a  fantastic  background  of  giant 
trees,  and  tangled  lianas,  on  the  banks  of  great  rivers 
where  the  naked  roots  of  the  mangroves  seem  like  the 
breeding-place  of  snakes.  Nointel,  who  had  more 
information  than  the  others,  reported  that  at  Gore, 
shortly  before  his  departure,  Magloire  Dubourg  had 
saved  the  country  from  a  disaster  by  driving  off  with 
his  prayers  a  plague  of  locusts,  which  were  about  to 
swoop  upon  the  millet  fields. 


6o  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"Is  that  in  Africa,  too?"  inquired  the  shopwoman, 
serving  and  Hstening  at  the  same  time. 

She  appealed  to  a  customer  who  was  blowing  into 
his  steaming  cup : 

"You  ought  to  know  that.  Monsieur  Van  den  Kris, 
you  have  travelled  so  much." 

The  man  raised  his  head,  and  everyone  looked  at 
him.  He  was  rather  short,  rotund  and  clean-shaven; 
and  he  was  dressed  in  a  greenish-grey  suit  such  as 
tourists  wear.  He  had  a  cheerful  countenance,  and 
the  air  of  a  gourmand;  and  it  was  probably  to 
counteract  his  easy-going  effect  that  in  conversation 
he  adopted  a  preoccupied  expression,  raising  his  eye- 
brows and  pulling  at  his  ears  as  though  every  word 
perplexed  him. 

"Gore,"  he  replied,  "is  on  the  Logone,  on  the  old 
Cameroon  border." 

"But  is  that  in  Africa?"  the  dairywoman  insisted. 

"Why,  of  course,  the  Cameroons  are  in  Africa." 

The  shopkeeper  nodded  her  head  respectfully : 

"  Oh,  you— well,  you  know  everything.  .  .  .  Have 
you  been  there,  in  those  very  places?" 

"Yes,  in  1906,  buying  ivory.  ...  I  might  have 
come  across  Magloire  Dubourg,  for  I  went  up  the 
Ubangui  less  than  a  month  after  he  did.  I  should 
have  liked  that,  because  his  brother  is  one  of  my  great 
friends.  I  must  go  and  call  on  them  to-day  at  Bar- 
lincourt.    .    .    .    Good-morning,  madame." 

Putting  down  his  ten  sous  on  the  counter,  he  went 
out  quickly,  pleased  with  the  effect  he  had  produced, 
but  unwilling  to  listen  to  the  dairywoman  who  was 
calling  him  back. 

Everywhere,  in  the  crowded  streets  along  which 
clerks  were  hastening,  in  the  entrances  of  the  Under- 
ground stations,  people  talked  of  nothing  but  the 
saint.  Factory  girls,  who  scarcely  ever  bought  a  news- 
paper, jostled  each  other  at  the  kiosks,  not  even 
giving  the  vendor  time  to  fold  the  sheets;  and 
then     they    stood    at    the    edge    of    the    pavement 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  61 

•MT  read  the  news   at  once.     Friends  were  calling  t© 
«sich  other  : 

"Hallo  !  are  you  coming  with  me?  I'm  taking  the 
?lay  off  to  go  to  Barlincourt." 

The  masses  were  deeply  stirred  by  the  strange  say- 
ings of  the  saint.  People  expected  supernatural 
happenings,  without  quite  knowing  why.  The  day 
Uo  longer  seemed  like  other  days. 

"Perhaps  we'll  get  a  holiday,"  mused  a  youngster, 
who  was  kicking  a  cork  along  the  gutter  on  his  way  to 
school. 

At  the  door  of  a  large  shop  the  assistants  were 
crowded  together,  discussing  the  subject  before  they 
went  in.  Men  were  reading  the  news  aloud  amidst  a 
buzz  of  arguments,  while  the  listening  saleswomen 
giggled  nervously.  Bernheim's  derisive  article  pro- 
voked in  one  group  a  sudden  burst  of  hooting. 

"All  the  same,"  a  solitary  voice  protested,  "he  is 
■right.     After  all,  your  Dubourg  is  only  a  sham  priest." 

Everyone  was  angry  with  the  speaker. 

"  Wliy  a  priest  ?    He  dresses  just  like  everybody  else." 

'■'And  how  do  you  know  that  the  Pope  isn't  going 
to  excommunicate  him,  just  out  of  sheer  jealousy?" 

A  small  girl  in  black  shouted  in  a  piercing  voice : 

"  Leave  him  alone !  He's  dotty  .  .  .  too  much 
cinema." 

The  whole  group  burst  out  laughing.  Others  were 
scrambling  for  copies  of  the  Dernier e  Heure :  the 
only  paper  to  announce  that  Magloire  Dubourg  was 
likely  soon  to  be  canonised  and  formally  proclaimed 
a  saint  by  the  Papal  Court.  The  writer  reminded  his 
readers  that  in  olden  days  saints  were  nominated 
directly  by  the  people,  the  ecclesiastical  authorities 
only  being  called  upon  to  sanction  the  election,  and  that 
m  consideration  of  the  exceptional  services  rendered 
to  Catholicism  by  the  man  from  Africa,  the  Holy  See 
nad  decided  to  revert  to  the  ancient  custom  and  to 
canonise  Magloire  Dubourg  without  the  usual  formah- 
(Ofs.  dA  estabhshed  by  Alexander  III.     Moreover,  the 


62  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Evangelist  fulfilled  all  the  requirements  of  Canon 
Law :  his  reputation  for  sanctity  was  manifest,  he 
had  never  been  the  object  of  public  worship,  he  had 
heroically  practised  the  human  virtues  of  justice, 
pmdence,  strength,  temperance,  and  the  Divine  virtues 
of  faith,  hope,  and  charity.  Finally,  he  had  accom- 
pHshed  many  more  than  three  miracles.  The  judges 
of  the  Rota,  on  being  consulted,  had  delivered  a 
favourable  opinion — thus  the  Derniere  Heure — and 
the  only  point  still  open  to  discussion  was  whether 
the  Pope  would  convoke  a  Council,  or  whether  he 
would  issue  a  decree  placing  the  name  of  Magloire 
Dubourg  on  the  Roll  of  the  saints. 

M.  Van  den  Kris  had  read  all  this  over  the  shoulder 
of  a  messenger  boy.    .    .    . 

"They  are  clever  enough,  those  people,"  said  the 
workman  to  him,  handing  the  paper  to  a  mate;  "they 
give  him  a  step  up,  and  then  shut  him  up  in  theii 
sacristies  so  that  he  can't  get  away  from  them." 

The  man  in  the  tweed  suit  departed  with  a  pensive 
air.  He  was  moved  by  the  thought  of  approaching 
this  extraordinary  personage.  On  the  one  hand  he  was 
pleased,  but  on  the  other  he  felt  uneasy,  foreseeing 
that  Magloire  Dubourg  would  talk  to  him  about  Africa. 

Some  twenty  years  earlier,  M.  Van  den  Kris  had 
shown  great  enthusiasm  for  the  Evangelist,  then  in 
the  dawn  of  his  glory.  One  Sunday  morning  he  had 
called  upon  the  novelist,  M^ho  was  then  unknown  to 
him,  and  had  offered  to  take  a  letter  to  his  brother, 
whom  he  said  that  he  was  sure  to  come  across  during 
his  expedition  in  the  Ubangui  country.  M.  Van  den 
Kris  was  quite  in  earnest,  and  convinced  that  he  was 
going  to  Africa,  though  he  had  no  idea  on  whose 
behalf,  nor  by  what  means  he  was  going  :  maps  accu- 
mulated on  his  table  together  with  Galloch's  and  Pere 
Lejeune'?  negro  vocabularies;  but  at  the  last  moment 
he  had  stayed  at  home.  "The  business,"  he  explained, 
"had  fallen  through."  Then,  a  few  months  later, 
'ter    a    suitable    interval,    he    went    back    to    the 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  63 

Dubourgs,  and  told  them  that  having  been  unable  to 
get  m  touch  with  Saint  Magloire,  he  had  entrusted  the 
letter  to  a  friend  of  his,  a  Lakka  chief,  who  would  be 
sure  to  deliver  it  at  the  peanut  picking.  In  this  way 
M.  Van  den  Kris  had  made  friends  with  the  Dubourgs, 
who  at  that  time  had  only  recently  been  married. 

He  was,  indeed,  a  most  entertaining  guest  and  a 
most  surprising  explorer.  No  one  could  accuse  him 
of  boasting,  for  he  very  seldom  talked  actually  about 
himself.  He  never  described  his  travels  :  he  simply 
hinted  at  them.  For  instance,  he  never  said  :  "When 
I  was  in  the  Congo,"  but  "When  I  v/as  out  there," 
which  lent  itself  to  any  interpretation  and  could  even 
conceal  the  truth. 

He  infected  others  with  his  own  nostalgia  when  he 
talked  about  Africa,  and,  as  a  result  of  listening  to  his 
stories,  three  of  his  colleagues,  seized  with  sudden 
madness,  took  ship  one  fine  day  for  Porto-Novo, 
whence  they  were  destined  never  to  return. 

As  another  man  might  offer  a  cigarette,  he  offered 
kola  nuts  to  all  comers,  consuming  an  astounding 
quantity  himself.  He  always  carried  some  about  with 
him,  in  a  pouch  made  of  pahn-fibre;  and  the  son  of 
his  concierge  had  munched  so  many  that  at  last  he 
had  fallen  ill,  with  nerves  on  edge  and  inflamed  intes- 
tines. Evil  tongues  even  went  to  the  length  of 
declaring  that  the  nuts  had  killed  the  poor  boy. 

It  was  only  possible  to  form  a  true  estimate  of  the 
travels  of  M.  Van  den  Kris  by  guess-work  and  deduc- 
tion, by  connecting  certain  allusions,  and  adding  them 
to  various  vague  remarks. 

Everything  about  him  was  mysterious,  even  his 
name.  In  reality  he  was  only  Joseph  Christian,  a 
fairly  common  name,  and  legend  had  it  that  he  had 
received  his  pseudonym  from  the  Bloemfontein  Dutch, 
who,  on  his  return  from  a  zebu  hunt,  had  bestowed  the 
freedom  of  their  city  upon  him. 

On  this  morning,  the  pseudo-Dutchman  only  put  in 
EL  brief  appearance  at  the  colonial  import  company  of 


64  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

which  he  was  the  oldest  representative;  and  having 
promised  the  manager  to  bring  him  back  an  auto- 
graphed photo  of  the  saint,  he  went  off  to  catch  his 
train. 

In  spite  of  his  absent-mindedness,  M.  Van  den  Kris 
noticed  an  unusual  activity  round  the  Gare  du  Nord. 
The  pavement  was  crowded  with  poor  muffied-up 
people  who  walked  with  difficulty,  and  with  mothers 
pushing  perambulators.  The  motor-buses  were  ar- 
riving crammed  to  suffocation.  Inside  the  station 
there  reigned  the  bustle  of  the  eve  of  a  holiday. 
Winding  queues  of  passengers  squabbled  in  front  of  the 
ticket-offices,  and  many  went  off  without  tickets,  for 
the  collectors  could  no  longer  keep  order  at  the 
entrance  to  the  platforms. 

"To  Barlincourt  !  To  Barlincourt ! "  people  were 
heard  shouting  on  all  sides. 

The  disorganised  crowd  swayed  backwards  and 
forwards,  to  right  and  left,  pouring  in  through  all  the 
passages,  regardless  of  barriers.  All  these  cripples 
and  idlers  wanted  to  see  Saint  Magloire.  The  miracle 
man  drew  them  like  a  magnet. 

InvaHds  were  to  be  seen  in  the  waiting  rooms, 
stretched  out  on  the  benches,  or  lying  on  stretchers. 
Two  men  wearing  ambulance  badges  came  along 
hastily,  led  by  a  little  girl  in  tears. 

"Mummy's  dying,"  she  screamed  in  a  terrified 
voice. 

"To  Barlincourt!  ...  To  Barlincourt!  .  .  ." 
fresh  passengers  shouted  as  they  ran  by  without  even 
turning  their  heads. 

"There  is  another  train  in  an  hour.  This  one  is 
fuU." 

M.  Van  den  Kris  thrust  himself  into  the  crowd  like 
a  wedge,  sticking  out  his  elbows;  and  to  help  himself 
through  he  shouted  in  an  irritated  voice  : 

"  Come,  don't  push  !    There  are  children  here  ! " 

He  managed  to  find  room  in  the  van  at  the  back  of 
the  train.    The  carriages  were   overflowing;    clusters 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  65 

of  men  hung  on  to  the  dirty  roofs  of  the  coaches,  at 
the  risk  of  being  killed  in  the  first  tunnel.  All  were 
shouting  and  vociferating,  nearly  all  the  faces  flaming 
with  excitement.  Their  clamour  filled  the  great  glass- 
roofed  hall  where  the  steaming  locomotives  waited. 
High  up  on  the  panes  the  light  of  the  morning  sun 
was  breaJcing  into  little  blinding  flashes.  People  were 
singing  in  chorus  : 

"It's  Magloire,  Magloire,  Magloire, 
It's  Magloire  we  want. 
Oh!    Oh!    Oh!    Oh!" 

The  whistle  of  the  engine  blew;  then  the  overloaded 
train,  with  a  violent  jerk,  started  heavily  on  its  way. 
From  every  platform  cheers  went  up  in  answer  to  the 
triumphant  shouts  of  those  who  were  leaving.  Then 
by  degrees  the  noise  died  down,  and  coming  from  the 
carriages  in  front  the  first  words  of  a  psalm  were 
heard. 

The  invalids  were  singing. 

Barlincourt,  too,  was  excited.  At  the  Aubemon 
factory,  work  was  almost  at  a  standstill.  The  first 
trains  from  Paris  had  already  brought  hundreds  of 
sight-seers,  who  wandered  in  groups  through  the 
startled  streets  of  the  little  town. 

At  the  Dumarchey  Cafe,  the  nearest  to  the  King's 
Domain,  people  could  be  heard  brawling  through  the 
open  doors.  On  a  chromo-lithograph,  framed  in  black 
wood,  a  cock  with  flapping  wings  presided  over  the 
bar. 

"When  this  cock  shall  crow. 
Credit  we'll  allow." 

This  was  the  only  ornament  of  the  premises,  besides 
some  shelves  laden  with  bottles.  The  room  smelt  of 
stale  tobacco  and  coffee  grounds. 

The  Dumarchey   girl  was   sewing  without   looking 


66  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

at  her  work,  crouched  on  a  stiaw  stool :  her  wicked 
grey  eyes  were  as  at  home  in  the  darkness  as  a  cat's. 
When  one  of  the  customers  shouted  out  an  order,  she 
laid  down  her  sewing  ungraciously  and  served  him 
with  an  abrupt  movement  of  her  elbow,  as  if  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  him.  She  never  softened  except  when 
she  spoke  to  Milot,  who  was  the  only  customer  to 
whom  credit  was  given. 

The  cripple,  who  by  dint  of  raising  his  voice  invari- 
ably got  the  last  word,  was  arguing  at  the  moment 
with  old  Moucron.  Round  the  table  some  peasants 
were  hstening,  turning  over  their  thoughts  in  silence. 
The  workmen  were  standing  by  the  counter. 

"All  the  same,"  repeated  the  obstinate  farmer,  "he 
is  not  an  ordinary  man;  I  have  seen  him,  quite  close, 
and,  I  tell  you,  he  doesn't  look  like  anybody  else." 

"The  Frangais  says  that  in  Africa  he  made  it  rain 
whenever  he  liked,"  said  a  market-gardener  who  was 
worried  by  the  drought. 

"Of  course,"  jeered  the  sacristan,  seated  on  a  corner 
of  the  table,  with  his  wooden  leg  stuck  out;  "Don't 
you  worry.  Dubourg  will  ask  the  Lord  to  turn  on 
the  tap  and  send  rain  for  your  peas." 

Old  Moucron  went  on  stubbornly  : 

"And  in  that  kind  of  book  with  the  pictures,  it  said 
that  the  animals  didn't  dare  touch  him,  not  even  the 
lions.  .  .  .  And  that  he  walked  across  a  river  on 
foot  without  even  getting  wet." 

Milot,  beside  himself  with  rage,  got  up  : 

"Well,"  he  bellowed,  "then  you're  going  to  say 
he's  a  saint  too,  and  that  he  works  miracles." 

"I  don't  say  that,"  the  old  man  retorted  craftily, 
"but  what  I  do  say  is  that  he's  a  man  that  knows 
more  than  us  and  that  he  has  powers." 

"Powers!"  jeered  the  sacristan.  "He  has  no  more 
power  than  my  old  boots,  this  saint  of  yours;  only  it 
Is  just  old  flats  like  you  that  fool  everybody  with  your 
greasy  tongues.  ...  If  you'd  been  in  Africa  you 
wpuldn't  let  them  stuff  such  tales  into  you.     Those 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  67 

niggers  are  the  worst  liars  in  the  world.  As  for  Colo- 
nials, I  know  what  they're  made  of.  Half  of  them 
are  off  then  heads,  and  those  that  aren't  are  ticket- 
of-leave  men  that  will  swear  to  anything  if  you  only 
oil  their  palms.  .  .  .  It's  easy  enough  to  tin  a 
beetroot  like  you,  all  ready-cooked,  who  has  never 
done  anything  but  dig  his  fields.    .    .    ." 

"Saint  or  no  saint,"  mumbled  the  peasant,  "any- 
way, he's  a  man  that  doesn't  spend  his  life  drinking, 
like  some  we  know  of .    .    .    . " 

The  one-legged  man  resented  this  attack. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Father 
Moucron,"  he  replied.  "You're  drivelling — only  fit 
for  the  alms-house,  you  are  ! " 

"Oh,  Milot,"  protested  the  old  man,  trying  to  look 
cool  and  dignified,  "that's  not  decent.    ..." 

"  No,  that's  not  a  thing  to  say,"  agreed  one  of  the  others. 

The  hostess,  seeing  that  the  door-keeper  was  getting 
the  worst  of  it,  came  to  his  rescue. 

"Come,  come,  don't  quarrel  on  a  day  like  this. 
Look,  here  come  some  more  Parisians.  It's  a  regular 
pilgrimage." 

Milot  came  up  to  the  counter,  hitching  up  his  cordu- 
roys with  both  hands. 

"I  don't  argue  with  clod-hoppers,"  he  said  to  the 
workmen.     "I  despise  them." 

Through  the  window-panes,  clouded  with  dust, 
groups  of  people  could  be  seen  walking  by.  Someone 
caught  sight  of  a  policeman  passing  on  a  bicycle. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  said  old  Moucron.  "Something's 
happening." 

Without  slowing  down,  the  cyclist  called,  out  to  the 
mistress  of  the  cafe. 

"I'm  going  to  fetch  the  Mayor." 

The  policeman,  indeed,  was  going  as  fast  as  he  could. 
He  flung  his  machine  against  the  door,  and  without 
waiting  for  the  maid  who  came  from  the  kitchen  drag- 
ging along  in  her  old  shoes,  he  shouted  from  the  foot 
of  the  stairs : 


68  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"  M.  Quatrepomme !  M.  Quatrepomme !  Come 
down  quickly.    ..." 

A  door  opened  on  the  first  floor,  and  the  legs  of  M. 
Quatrepomme  appeared  on  the  landing.  The  Mayor 
had  already  got  his  boots  on.  Hastily  he  came  down 
a  few  steps,  and,  leaning  over  the  banisters,  looked  to 
see  who  was  calling  him. 

"Well,"  he  asked.  "What  has  happened?  Is  there 
a  fire?" 

The  policeman,  who  could  not  keep  still,  in  three 
strides  joined  the  Mayor  half-way  up  the  stairs. 

"No,"  he  stammered.  .  .  .  "You  must  come  at 
once;   it's  the  saint.    ..." 

M.  Quatrepomme  jumped. 

"Ah,  there  you  are  !  The  troubles  are  beginning 
already  ! " 

"Yes,"  the  bewildered  policeman  continued.  "A 
demonstration.  .  .  .  The  sergeant  sent  me.  .  .  . 
They're  over-running  the  place,  and  they're  making  a 
scene  in  the  Rue  de  la  Republique.  They've  already 
smashed  a  window." 

"But  who  are  you  talking  about?"  said  the  Mayor 
impatiently. 

"Some  fellows.  .  .  .  Hundreds  of  tliem  have 
come  by  train,  it's  Bedlam  let  loose;  they're  singing 
psalms  on  the  public  highway.  .  .  .  We  rnust 
interfere,  but  there  are  only  four  of  us,  five  with  the 
rural  police.  .  .  .  Don't  forget  your  sash,  the  ser- 
geant says.  .  .  .  And  perhaps  we  might  pick  up 
the  drummer." 

"Old  Rousseau!  He's  the  biggest  fool  in  the 
town." 

"That  doesn't  matter,  we  want  him  for  the 
crowds.    ..." 

M.  Quatrepomme,  with  knitted  brows,  had  gone 
into  the  drawing  room  to  fetch  his  tri-coloured  sash, 
which  hung  on  the  wall  beneath  a  photograph  of  him- 
self in  a  frockcoat. 

"I  am  going  to  ring  up  the  Prefecture  first  of  all," 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  69 

he  mumbled.  "I  don't  want  to  take  anything  upon 
myself.  .  .  .  And,  after  all,  if  there's  no  thieving, 
and  no  seditious  shouting.    ..." 

"Shouting  is  always  seditious,  M.  le  Maire,"  re- 
marked the  policeman.  "Otherwise  people  wouldn't 
shout.  And  then  there  are  the  windows  of  the 
National  Bank." 

"Bah!  Windows!"  growled  M.  Quatrepomme  as 
he  put  on  his  hat.  "To  begin  with,  the  National  Bank 
are  always  trying  to  annoy  the  municipality.  .  .  . 
I  shall  keep  my  eye  on  them.    ..." 

The  magistrate,  reluctantly  following  the  policeman, 
who  was  pushing  his  bicycle,  started  in  the  direction 
of  the  Town  Hall. 

"I  was  right,  after  all,  to  be  on  my  guard  instead 
of  dancing  with  joy  hke  aU  those  idiots,"  he  mused 
as  he  walked  along  with  bent  head.  "Indeed,  I  caU 
it  a  nice  present  for  the  town  !  And,  besides,  am  I 
to  be  'for'  or  'against?'  ...  I  think  I  had  better 
be  'for,'  anyway  to  start  with.    ..." 

The  streets  were  full  of  imusual  movement.  Chil- 
dren were  running  up  and  down  and  nudging  each 
other  to  point  out  the  Maj^or. 

"Where  are  you  off  to  like  that,  instead  of  being  at 
school  ? "  he  called  out  angrily. 

The  urchins  fled  headlong.  Only  one  little 
girl  stopped,  with  a  stupid  look,  her  mouth  wide 
open. 

"We're  going  to  see  the  miracles,"  said  she, 
snifi&ng. 

Some  housewives  were  hastening  towards  the 
Dubourg  villa.  Their  hair  undone,  kerchiefs  over 
their  heads,  they  went  along  calling  to  their  neigh- 
bours as  they  passed.  Some  workmen,  having  heard 
the  news  in  the  noon-hour,  had  abandoned  their  work; 
tradesmen  were  closing  their  shops.  Scarcely  any- 
body was  left  in  the  houses. 

On  the  threshold  of  his  dark  den,  the  blacksmith 
was  hurriedly  shpping  into  his  coat. 


70  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"WeU,  M.  le  Maire,"  he  said  familiarly.  "We're 
all  going.     Is  it  worth  while,  do  you  think?" 

"We  shall  see,  we  shall  see,"  answered  M. 
Quatrepomme  evasively. 

Beyond  the  market-place,  no  one  was  visible : 
everybody  had  rushed  off  after  the  last  batch  of 
Parisians,  a  troop  of  noisy  fellows  who  were  marching 
in  step  to  a  song.  The  High  Street  looked  sad  and  bare, 
with  no  display  in  the  shops  and  all  the  shutters  up. 
In  the  distance  cries  could  be  heard  resounding  clearly 
in  the  heavy  atmosphere.  Sulphurous  clouds  were 
passing  overhead,  very  low.  There  was  a  feeling  of 
storm  in  the  air. 

"We  shall  have  hail,"  prophesied  the  policeman, 
looking  up  at  the  sky. 

"So  much  the  better;  perhaps  that  will  keep  them 
quiet,"  answered  M.  Quatrepomme,  more  gloomy 
than  ever. 

Just  then — at  the  comer  of  the  Rue  de  Verdun — he 
suddenly  stopped  short.  He  had  just  perceived  a 
man  who  was  coming  towards  them,  quite  alone  in 
the  empty  street.     A  blind  man. 

His  head  was  thrown  back,  his  white  eyes  exposed 
to  the  light,  and  with  little  timid  taps  of  his  stick  he 
was  feeling  his  way  along  the  edge  of  the  pavement. 
He  sensed  around  him  the  disquieting  stillness  of  the 
deserted  town,  and  was  questioning  the  silence  in  a 
toneless  voice  : 

"If  you  please  .  ,  .  the  saint,  the  saint's  house, 
if  you  please." 

•  ••••• 

The  villa  was  only  just  waking  up,  and  Magloire 
Dubourg  was  alone  in  the  garden  when  the  advance 
guard  arrived  from  Paris,  sight-seers  who  glued  their 
noses  to  the  raihngs  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  glimpse 
of  the  saint,  without,  however,  daring  to  ring  the  bell. 
Later  on  they  were  joined  by  a  few  who  had  come 
in  quest  of  health,  and  the  group,  as  it  increased,  grew 
bolder. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE   ^  71 

Finally,  a  beggar  with  twisted  limbs  led  them  in. 
He  pushed  open  the  iron  gate  and  said  : 

"Come  along.     I'm  sure  he  won't  mind." 

They  followed  him,  silently  jostling  one  another. 
Dew-drops  were  still  trembling  on  the  grass,  and  the 
wet  shrubs  held  the  fragi-ance  of  early  morning. 

Now  and  then  a  bough,  stirred  by  the  breeze,  shook 
a  little  spray  of  water,  like  a  cool  powder,  from  the 
tips  of  its  leaves.  Birds  were  ruffling  their  plumage 
as  they  sang. 

A  small  girl  with  white  cheeks,  who  limped  pain- 
fully, left  the  path  and  went  to  pick  lilies  of  the  vaUey 
and  primroses  imder  the  trees. 

"Come  here  at  once  ! "  cried  her  mother  in  a  subdued 
voice. 

"Wait  a  second,  I'm  making  a  posy." 

The  pilgrims  passed  under  a  green  archway  from 
which  ivy  dropped  in  glossy  clusters;  then  they 
stopped,  embarrassed.  They  were  in  front  of  the 
house.  The  shutters  of  both  stories  were  closed,  but 
on  the  other  side  of  the  out-buildings  cocks  could  be 
heard  crowing,  and  a  dog  barked  as  he  tugged  at  his 
chain. 

"Shall  we  go  and  have  a  look  over  there? "  suggested 
the  bandy-legged  man. 

Hesitatingly  they  passed  up  the  three  steps  to  the 
terrace,  and  as  they  went  forward  the  gravel  crunched 
beneath  their  feet.  Under  the  lime-tree,  some  wicker 
chairs,  drawn  close  together,  seemed  to  be  continuing 
a  conversation,  and  the  embarrassed  intruders  had 
the  feeling  of  actually  disturbing  people.  Stopping 
short  of  the  foot  of  the  steps  which  led  up  to  the  house, 
they  looked  at  the  closed  door,  disconcerted,  wonder- 
ing what  to  do. 

"Why  have  you  come  in  here?  What  do  you 
want?" 

The  rough  voice  startled  them,  and,  suddenly 
alarmed,  they  turned  round  abruptly.  At  the  first 
glance  they  recognised  the  saint.     Dressed  in  his  long 


72  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

clerical  cape,  bare-headed,  he  stood  motionless  under 
the  ivied  archway.  He  was  holding  close  to  him  the 
little  girl  with  the  posy. 

"You  are  sight-seers,  are  you  not?"  went  on 
Magloire  Dubourg.  "You  wanted  to  see  me.  Well, 
you  have  seen  me,  now  go  away." 

The  men  had  taken  off  their  hats.  The  women, 
abashed,  bent  their  heads,  and  looked  at  him  from 
under  their  eyelids,  afraid  to  move.  The  lame  man 
leant  heavily  on  his  sticks,  and  put  on  a  pitiable  ex- 
pression, drawing  his  mouth  on  one  side  as  though 
his  suffering  produced  the  spasm.  It  was  he  who 
was  bold  enough  to  speak. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  he  said  in  a  whining  voice,  "we 
did  want  to  see  you.  But  all  the  same  that's  not 
enough.  If  you  would  help  us.  .  .  ,  We  are  poor 
cripples,  you  see.  Look  at  me,  I'm  sort  of  paralysed 
in  both  legs.  Well,  you  can  do  such  a  lot, 
you    .    .    ." 

The  saint  let  go  the  child's  shoulder  and  stepped 
forward,  the  dark  wings  of  his  mantle  fluttering  about 
him.  He  went  up  to  the  cripple  and  gazed  at  him  so 
steadily  that  the  other,  daunted,  turned  away  his  eyes. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "you  come  to  me  as  if  I  were  a 
quack.  It  is  your  leg  you  are  thinking  of,  isn't  it? 
But  what  about  your  soul?  Have  you  ever  thought 
about  that?  Yet  it  is  far  more  twisted  than  your 
limbs.  I  can  see  it,  that  soul  of  yours,  and  it  is  your 
soul  that  you  should  try  to  cure.  A  day  wiU  come 
when  you  wiU  no  longer  need  your  legs  to  carry 
you,  my  lad,  but  on  that  day  you  will  still  have 
your  soul  to  carry.  Listen  to  my  advice  :  take  care 
of  it." 

Then  he  turned  towards  the  others,  and  his 
wrathful  aspect  amazed  them.  They  had  expected 
that  he  would  bend  upon  them  a  face  of  heavenly 
mildness,  like  the  saints  in  sacred  pictures,  and  all 
they  beheld  was  harsh  features  and  angry  eyes  under 
bushy  grey  brows. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  73 

"You,  too,  are  no  doubt  in  need  of  healing,"  he 
said  roughly,  coming  close  to  them.  "You,  too,  want 
to  be  cured,  and  you  come  and  pray  to  me.  You  do 
not  entreat  the  Master  but  beseech  the  servant.  You 
don't  believe  in  God,  do  you?  He  is  too  high  up,  and 
the  most  devout  amongst  you  have  never  thought 
that  Heaven  could  hear  their  lamentations;  but  be- 
cause I  am  alive,  because  I  am  made  of  flesh  and 
blood,  because  you  can  see  me  and  touch  me,  you 
believe  in  my  power.  What  do  you  expect  from  me? 
I  can  do  nothing,  you  hear?  Nothing.  I  am  neither 
priest  nor  a  doctor;   nor  even  a  wizard." 

Drawing  the  folds  of  his  cloak  about  him,  he  stared 
at  them  one  after  the  other,  without  moving,  all  the 
hfe  of  him  flaming  in  his  strange,  pale  eyes. 

"Why  have  you  come  here?  You  there,  you  are  a 
working  man,  are  you  not?  Why  have  you  left  your 
work?  And  you,  are  you  not  a  mother?  Who  is 
looking  after  your  children?  Are  you  not  ashamed 
of  your  deserted  homes?  Come,  go  back.  This  is 
neither  a  hospital  nor  a  church.     Be  off  with  you  ! " 

A  woman,  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands,  dared 
to  answer  him.  She  had  fat  mottled  cheeks  and  wore 
a  jet  bonnet  and  black  gloves. 

"We  wanted  to  see  you,  and  to  pray  to  God  after- 
wards," she  blurted  out  with  an  air  of  false  humility. 

The  saint  eyed  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"Do  you  think  God  needs  so  many  prayers?"  he 
asked  harshly.  "The  best  prayers  are  silent  ones. 
There  is  work  for  you  at  home;  and  God  is  better 
pleased  with  your  work  than  with  Paternosters  which 
your  lips  mumble  though  your  heart  has  no  part  in 
them.  You  mothers,  praise  God  by  taking  care  of 
your  children  and  by  looking  after  your  houses.  And 
as  for  you,  you  praise  Him  when  you  handle  your 
file,  when  you  work  in  your  office.  The  painful  labour 
of  mankind  is  one  vast  hymn  which  rises  to  Heaven 
and  ceases  neither  by  night  nor  by  day.  One  half  of 
the  world  strives  and  suffers  while  the  other  sleeps; 


74  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

the  perpetual  labour  of  mankind  eternally  follows  the 
bright  course  of  the  sun,  and  ever  since  the  Earth 
began  to  revolve  the  clamour  of  man's  work  rises  to 
God,  as  though  to  say  :  '  We  have  obeyed  Thee,  O 
Lord;  we  earn  our  bread  by  the  sweat  of  our  brow.' 
Will  jT-ou,  then,  disobey  on  my  account?  Others  are 
eammg  your  dail}'  bread  for  you  while  you  are  idling 
here.  Go  away.  Did  you  think,  cripple,  that  you 
would  return  home  on  dancing  feet?  And  you  who 
have  lost  your  eye,  did  you  think  I  was  going  to  give 
it  back  to  you?  WTiy,  you  insult  God  when  you 
imagine  that  He  is  like  a  dishonest  doctor,  who  only 
attends  to  patients  who  groan  loudest,  or  those  who 
are  recommended  to  him.  I  have  counted  you,  there 
are  fifteen  or  twenty  of  you  here;  is  there  a  single  one 
among  you  who  has  considered  the  sore  places  in  his 
heart?  No,  it  is  your  body,  always  your  body,  that 
you  worry  about.  Not  one  of  you  is  afraid  of  the 
shameful  cancer  eating  at  his  heart,  which  may  yet 
make  him  suffer  throughout  Eternity.  The  husk  of 
you  is  nothing,  do  you  understand  me,  cripple?  And 
I  do  not  pity  you.  Death  is  a  journey  that  we  make 
naked  with  no  baggage  but  our  souls,  and  you  will 
not  take  your  twisted  limbs  with  you  into  the  other 
life,  any  more  than  the  rich  man  will  take  his  trea- 
sures." 

The  pilgrims  listened  to  him,  trembling,  without 
understanding.  His  words  were  beyond  their  com- 
prehension. As  he  advanced  towards  them  with 
flaming  eyes,  twisting  his  cape  convulsively  in  his 
fingers,  they  withdrew  fearfully,  drawing  closer  to 
one  another  for  mutual  comfort,  their  eyes  still  fixed 
on  him.  His  passionate  faith  terrified  them,  like  a 
sudden  fit  of  madness. 

"You  all  understand  me,  don't  you?"  said  the  Saint 
more  harshly  than  ever.     "You  understand,  cripple?" 

He  stepped  forward  abruptly.  With  a  start  the 
frightened  band  of  pilgrims  drew  away.  The  bandy- 
legged man,  who  was  in  the  front  row,  propped  himself 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  75 

up  on  his  sticks  and  tried  to  hide  himself  among  the 
others. 

The  saint  stared  at  all  the  dmnb  faces,  whose  eyes 
never  left  him.  Surprised  eyes,  cowardly  eyes,  be- 
seeching eyes.  Not  one  look  of  love,  not  one  look  of 
faith  among  them. 

"Yes,"  he  continued  bitterly,  "I  am  talking  to 
blockheads  without  ears.  What  do  you  care  about 
the  Hereafter,  or  the  Soul,  or  Eternal  Life?  You 
didn't  come  here  for  that,  I  know;  you  came  like 
loafers,  or  like  gullible  fools  running  after  a  charlatan. 
You  talk  of  future  bliss,  you  believe  in  nothing  but 
what  can  be  eaten,  you  see  no  further  than  the  bottom 
of  your  trough.  WTiat  you  were  really  expecting  was 
a  magician  in  a  white  robe,  a  miracle-worker  who 
would  heal  the  sick  and  quicken  the  dead,  if  only  to 
provide  amusement  for  you.  Now  here  you  are,  dis- 
appointed and  frightened.  Get  away  from  here,  I 
can  do  nothing,  and  I  will  do  nothing  for  you.  .  .  . 
Begone  ! " 

He  flung  the  words  at  them  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
his  arms  raised  to  Heaven,  his  clenched  fists  still  hold- 
ing his  cloak.  He  looked  like  an  enormous  black 
bird,  with  wings  outspread.  The  pilgrims,  alarmed, 
withdrew  towards  the  avenue,  slowly  at  first,  then 
faster  and  faster,  scattering  as  they  went.  As  they 
passed  out  of  the  ivy-covered  archway  several  of  them 
began  to  run. 

"  Begone  !  Begone  ! "  the  saint  continued  to  shout 
from  the  bottom  step  of  the  terrace. 

The  little  white-checked  girl  alone  looked  at  him 
without  fear,  out  of  her  large  wondering  eyes.  When 
she  saw  her  mother  running  with  the  rest,  she  turned 
as  though  to  follow  her;  then  she  came  back  with  her 
little  limping  steps,  and,  approaching  Magloire 
Dubourg,  held  out  her  flowers  to  him. 

"Please,  sir,"  she  said  in  a  frail  voice,  "may  I  keep 
them?" 

The  saint  bent  his  head,  and,  for  the  first  time,  a 


76  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

smile  lit  up  his  features.  He  stooped,  and  lifted  the 
child  right  off  the  ground  in  his  long  gnarled  hands. 
The  small  wasted  form  weighed  nothing  at  the  end  of 
his  outstretched  arms,  and  he  looked  with  pity  at  the 
tiny  blanched  face  with  its  nose  that  was  so  comically 
long  and  pointed. 

"They  are  yours,  little  one,  keep  them  and  think 
of  me." 

The  child,  although  she  was  not  frightened,  shivered 
nervously,  and  her  lovely  feverish  eyes  plunged  deep 
into  those  of  the  saint. 

"Remember  that  the  old  African  does  not  want  you 
to  be  ill?  Eh?  He  won't  have  it.  .  .  .  You  must 
get  nice  fat  cheeks  and  make  happiness  for  others. 
Now,  run  along  to  mother." 

He  kissed  her — two  smacking  rustic  kisses — and  set 
her  down  again.  The  child  raced  off  to  catch  up  the 
others.     Her  mother,  seeing  her  run,  screamed  out : 

"You'll  fall!" 

But  the  little  girl,  without  lessening  her  speed, 
threw  herself  into  her  mother's  arms.  A  slight  flush 
tinted  her  cheeks.     She  repeated  excitedly : 

"Mummy,  he  said  I  was  to  keep  the  flowers  and 
not  to  be  sick  any  more." 

The  perturbed  mpther  looked  at  her  child,  whose 
thin  little  hands  she  was  holding  tight. 

"But  you  ran,  my  Nenette,  how  did  you  do  that?" 
she  questioned  in  a  trembling  voice.  "And  you  didn't 
fall  down.    .    .    .    How  did  you  manage  to  run?" 

"I  don't  know.  Mummy,  I  don't  know," 

The  little  one  smiled  up  at  her  with  a  radiant  ex- 
pression that  the  mother  had  never  seen  on  her  face 
before. 

They  were  the  last  to  pass  out  of  the  gate.  The 
bewildered  mother  stared  at  the  curious  crowd  without 
seeing  them.  There  were  two  or  three  hundred  now, 
waiting  for  those  who  had  gone  into  the  garden. 

"What  is  he  like?" 

""What  did  he  say  to  you?" 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  7> 

At  thit  moment  the  mother,  who  was  still  holding 
her  child  close  to  her  with  both  hands,  uttered  a 
T)iercjng  cry — a  long,  heartrending  cry,  which  startled 
ever3'^one.  Voices  were  hushed.  A  shudder  passed 
through  the  crowd. 

"  My  child  is  cured  ! "  screamed  the  mother  like  a 
madwoman.     "My  child  is  cured!" 

The  little  maid,  her  face  buried  in  the  black  skirts, 
began  unconsciously  to  cry — 

"I  am  cured,  I  am  cured!"  she  repeated,  sobbing. 

A  scared  silence  held  the  crowd.  The  mother  was 
still  screaming  unconsciously,  and  the  long  animal 
wail  probed  deeply  into  the  very  vitals  of  the  throng. 
They  listened  with  beating  hearts,  their  legs  giving 
way  beneath  them.  A  strange  current  passed  from 
one  to  another.  Then,  suddenly,  an  insensate  clamour 
broke  forth — howls,  cheers,  a  sort  of  frenzy,  and  the^' 
flung  themselves  upon  the  little  girl,  in  a  wild  rush^ 
as  though  a  magnet  had  suddenly  drawn  them  towards 
her. 

"It's  a  miracle!"  they  shrieked.  "It's  a 
miracle  ! " 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  crowd,  squeezed  and 
crushed  together,  was  nothing  more  than  a  compact 
mass,  whirling  about  the  avenue.  In  the  centre,  in- 
visible, was  the  dishevelled  mother  round  whom  they 
pressed.  They  wanted  to  see;  they  broke  through 
knots  of  people;  they  beat  one  another  down;  and 
the  deafening  roar  drowned  the  cries  of  a  woman  who 
was  being  trampled  underfoot.  Then  something  rose 
from  the  crush  :  twenty  arms  had  just  raised  the  little 
girl  who  was  being  suffocated,  and  the  mob  moved  on 
howling,  blind,  leaderless,  with  the  little  slender  doll 
in  her  beggar's  rags  carried  high  above  it. 

"  It's  a  miracle  ! " 

From  all  sides  people  were  running  up,  attracted 
by  the  noise,  local  inhabitants  or  Parisians  from  the 
liast  train.  The  swelling  throng  resembled  a  huge 
beast  with  a  thousand  outstretched  hands.     They  all 

F 


78  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

wanted  to  touch  the  child,  her  frock,  her  wasted  legs. 
Those  who  were  near  her  jostled  against  each  other, 
and  fought  with  cowardly  thrusts;  and  the  man  who 
stiunblingly  was  carrying  her  allowed  himself  to  be 
borne  away  by  the  ilood,  with  his  little  burden  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Flower!  Give  me  a  flower!"  people  were  shout- 
ing in  the  tumult. 

Feverish  hands  snatched  at  these  relics  which  the 
half-stupefied  child  distributed  among  them.  Other 
hands  seized  on  the  mother,  hooking  on  to  her  arms, 
pulling  at  her  skirts  : 

"What's  the  little  girl's  name?  What  was  the 
matter  witli  her  ?  Tell  us,  how  long  ?  .  .  .  Madame, 
I  say,  Madame.    ..." 

From  its  midst  the  crowd  cast  forth  to  the  edge  of 
the  road  invalids,  cripples,  old  people,  who  emerged 
from  the  scuffle  tottering,  some  livid,  others  flushed 
scarlet.  The  new-comers  surrounded  them,  thinking 
they  might  perhaps  have  something  to  tell : 

"When  did  it  happen?     Were  you  there?" 

Some  people,  abandoning  the  crowd,  turned  back 
to  the  viUa.  One  woman  was  wheeling  a  psdlid  youth 
in  an  invalid  chair. 

"Let  us  go  quick.  ...  He  is  sure  to  cure 
others." 

Some  began  to  turn  back,  then,  hearing  a  fresh 
outcry,  changed  their  minds  and  ran  back  to  catch 
up  the  crowd.  A  stout  and  almost  breathless  man 
in  a  white  waistcoat  who  was  following  kept  on 
saying : 

"They  should  have  it  confirmed  at  once  by  a  doctor. 
Do  tell  them." 

But  nobody  was  listening  to  him.  They  were 
watching  the  child  who  had  been  healed,  and,  throw- 
ing themselves  back  into  the  whirlpool  to  get  closer 
to  her,  they  joined  in  the  universal  shout  of : 

"  It's  a  miracle  !     It's  a  miracle  ! " 

The  news  spread  quickly  through  Baxlincourt. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  79 

"The  saint  has  cured  a  little  lame  girl." 

"No,  it  was  a  paralytic,  a  child  who  was  as  good 
as  dead.". 

The  rumour  was  carried  from  door  to  door,  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  whole  population  was  already- 
cut  of  doors  when  the  noise  of  the  procession  drew 
near.  The  Parisians,  coming  out  of  the  station, 
hurried  along,  attracted  by  the  din.  The  street  was 
full  to  overflowing;  curious  spectators  were  being 
squeezed  against  the  houses  and  thrown  back  into  the 
passages.  The  turbulent  mob  moved  forward,  cleav- 
ing its  way  through  the  mass  of  onlookers.  People 
were  leaning  out  of  all  the  windows;  a  single  cry  went 
up  from  the  pavement  and  fell  from  the  upper  floors 

"  Here  she  is  ! " 

The  fragile  figure  of  the  child  could  be  seen  at  once, 
dominating  the  maelstrom.  Old  women  crossed  them- 
selves. Lads  were  trying  to  make  jokes,  but  only 
half-heartedly  with  dry  throats  and  strange  shudders 
that  made  their  flesh  creep.  It  was  a  storm  that 
went    by,    a    torrent.  The    shrill    voices    of 

women  rose  suddenly,  intoning  the  MAGNIFICAT, 
but  were  at  once  drowned  in  the  shouting.  Only  a 
fev/  persistent  devotees,  who  knew  the  words,  went  on 
chanting  in  falsetto  tones.  Their  dark-clad  group 
with  the  mother  at  its  head  could  be  seen  round  the 
little  girl  with  the  flowers.  Behind  them  came  the 
whirl  of  the  rabble.  .  .  .  The  men  too  were 
shouting  incoherently  to  relieve  their  strained  nerves. 
For  a  moment  came  cries  of  "Hurrah  for  the  saint !" 
to  a  revolutionary  tune.  -  -  -  After  that  nothing 
but  confused  noise  .  howlmg,  singing,  whistling. 

They  passed  almost  before  a  glimpse  of  them  could 
be  caught.  The  boys  racing  in  pursuit  caught  up 
the  procession,  which  was  growing  larger  at  every 
cross-road.  Behind  them  the  street  was  left  nearly 
empty,  for  the  crowd  carried  with  it  everyone  except 
a  few  terrified  old  women. 

M.  Quatrepomme,  very  pale,  looked  after  them  as 


8o  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

they  disappeared.  He  had  been  thrown  against  a 
shop-front  and  had  clung  to  it  as  well  as  he  could, 
his  constable  having  been  torn  away  from  him. 
Dumbfounded,  he  was  thinking : 

"There  are  over  two  thousand  of  them." 

He  felt  weak  and  helpless;   all  his  courage  had  fled. 

"Shall  I  go  up  to  the  villa  to  thank  the  saint  and 
find  out  what  has  happened,  or  shall  I  go  to  the 
station?"  he  asked  himself. 

He  decided  on  the  station,  as  being  less  compromising. 

"Ah.  you  come  at  the  right  moment."  gasped  the 
distracted  station-master  "They  broke  down  the 
barriers  to  get  out  quicker.  The  next  train  is  sig- 
nalled, what  on  earth  will  happen?  I  have  had  a 
telephone  message,  saying  it  is  packed  to  the  roofs. 
We  ought  to  have  some  gendarmes  " 

Railway  employees  were  running  in  all  directions. 
They  had  found  some  wire  and  were  hastily  repairing 
the  fence  over  which  the  sergeant  of  gendarmerie  was 
ordered  to  mount  guard.  In  the  cloak  room  some 
men  were  bending  over  an  epOeptic,  who  was  recover* 
ing  from  a  fit,  exhausted,  his  eyes  still  glassy. 

"Look  out !  Here  she  comes  !"  shouted  the  station 
master  hearing  the  signal  bell. 

The  engine  was  growing  bigger  at  the  further  end 
of  the  gHttering  rails.  In  an  uproar  of  yells  and 
whistles,  the  train  steamed  in.  The  engine  was  pant- 
ing like  a  runner  out  of  breath,  expanding  its  broad 
athletic  chest  and  clenching  the  tenacious  fists  of  its 
buffers. 

Doors  slammed  all  along  the  train.  It  was  like  a 
cask  from  which  the  bung  had  been  pulled  out.  Pas- 
sengers gushed  out  from  everywhere  and  the  tram 
had  not  ceased  moving  before  the  platform  was 
already  swarming  with  people.  A  mad  clamour, 
which  overrode  the  whistles  and  the  grating  of  the 
brakes,  filled  the  air  Passengers  were  still  jiunping 
out,  as  if  the  overcrowded  carriages  were  contracting 
and  squeezing  them  forth. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  8i 

After  two  hours  of  jolting  and  suffocation,  on  the 
edge  of  sickness,  they  shouted  with  rehef  as  they  es- 
caped from  their  stifling  vapour-baths.  It  was  the 
disorderly  crowd  of  racing  Sundays.  The  sergeant, 
standing  erect  in  front  of  the  gap  in  the  fence,  cla- 
moured : 

"Exit,  further  along!" 

But  the  passengers  did  not  move;  they  wanted  to 
see  the  sick  people. 

"Come,  move  on!"  shouted  the  station  officials. 

In  some  inexplicable  fashion  the  train  had  hardly 
arrived  before  everyone  who  had  travelled  in  it  knew 
that  a  Uttle  girl  had  just  been  healed,  and  the  story 
grew  in  wonder  as  it  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
Some  young  rascals,  who  had  travelled  on  the  roof 
of  the  train  or  by  hanging  on  to  the  bars,  were  now 
trying  to  climb  over  the  barrier 

"That's  forbidden,"  bawled  the  gendarme,  red 
with  rage "I'll  send  for  the  Mayor!" 

They  burst  out  laughing  at  the  absurd  threat : 

"Will  he  come  in  his  sabots?"  jeered  the  wags. 

"Tell  him  to  put  on  his  best  smock." 

People  were  still  streaming  out  of  the  train  :  it 
seemed  as  if  it  was  never  going  to  be  emptied.  They 
were  all  running  peU-mell  towards  the  front  coaches, 
where  the  sick  had  been  accommodated.  Out  of 
these  carriages  came  a  stifling  smell  of  carbolic  and 
iodoform.  Crowding  round  the  doors  as  though  round 
hospital  windows,  tossing  about  on  their  seats  and 
stretchers,  the  invalids  were  shouting  "Barlincourt  ! 
Barlincourt ! "  in  tones  of  ecstasy,  such  as  Crusaders 
may  have  used  as  they  cried  "Jerusalem!"  on  the 
stony  hiUs  of  the  Holy  Land. 

They  aU  wanted  to  get  out  at  once,  and  the  less 
feeble  were  pushing  the  others  back,  with  malevolent 
glances,  as  if  each  expected  to  be  healed  merely  by 
setting  foot  on  this  blessed  soil.  They  longed  to 
breathe  freely  again,  to  be  relieved  from  the  strain, 
to  get  away  from  hard  boards  that  bruised  their  backs. 


82  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

Several,  in  spite  of  their  feeble  limbs,  jumped  from 
the  train  while  it  was  still  moving,  and  a  final  jolt 
threw  an  emaciated  v/oman  who  had  been  standing 
upon  a  foot-board  on  to  the  platform. 

Arms  v/ere  stretched  out  on  all  sides  to  help  them 
to  get  out.  There  were  consumptives  with  hollow 
cheeks  and  glittering  eyes;  children  with  hip-disease, 
with  their  legs  in  plaster  of  Paris;  men  crippled  with 
gout,  people  with  livid  faces,  afflicted  v/ith  cancer; 
hideous  features  corroded  by  lupus,  old  men  who 
coughed,  invalids  with  bilious  skin,  suffering  from 
liver-complaints,  epileptics :  a  horrible  procession  of 
pain  and  disease,  waste  products  of  humanity  waiting 
to  be  swept  av/ay  by  Death. 

"Is  the  villa  very  far?"  they  asked  directly  they 
alighted.     "Show  us  the  way  quickly." 

But  tliey  could  only  move  one  step  at  a  time,  for 
the  narrow  gateway  held  them  back.  People  were 
jammed  together  imder  the  portico;  but  those  at  the 
back  still  pushed  forward,  and  the  mass,  too  tightly 
packed,  finally  broke,  bursting  through  the  office  doors, 
which  rattled  madly  in  a  crash  of  broken  glass.  The 
noise  redoubled.  The  station-master,  crushed  against 
the  wall,  thundered  orders  and  threats  which  no  one 
understood.  The  squeals  of  women  cut  across  the 
tumult;  terrified  children  were  lifted  up;  and  above 
aU  the  uproar  there  could  be  heard  the  irritated  whistle 
of  the  train  demanding  free  passage- 
Suddenly  there  emerged  from  the  press  a  large 
placard,  lifted  up  by  two  railwajTiien,  who  with  an 
effort  placed  it  upright  against  the  clock.  It  was  an 
inspiration  of  M.  Quatrepomme's.  Everyone  read  it 
at  the  same  moment :. 

IMPORTANT  NOTICE. 

"There  are  no  miracles  within  the  bounds 
of  the  parish." 

The  Municipal  Authorities. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRR  83 

For  an  instant  the  passengers  were  taken  aback, 
at  a  loss  to  understand;  then  all  at  once  an  infernal 
hooting  broke  out,  a  huge  explosion  of  laughter,  a 
volley  of  hisses.  The  crowd,  which  for  a  moment 
had  been  motionless,  drove  forward  again  like  a  bat- 
tering ram,  more  window-panes  crashed,  the  whole 
barrier  collapsed,  the  door  of  the  cloak  room  was 
driven  in,  and  the  unchained  multitude,  breaking 
loose  like  a  sea  overflowing  its  dykes,  seemed  to  escape 
in  all  directions. 

The  noise  reached  the  market-place  and  filled  the 
avenue.  Songs  arose  amid  the  din  of  rioting,  and 
suddenly  M.  Quatrepomme,  who  had  taken  shelter  in 
the  telegraph  office,  heard  the  roUing  of  a  drum.  He 
thought  it  was  a  signal  of  police  intervention,  and  his' 
heart  sank. 

"My  God  !"  he  moaned.     "Wliat  are  they  up  to?" 

But  the  drum  had,  after  all,  a  cheerful  sound.  It 
seemed  to  be  beating  time,  gaily  sounding  the  reveille, 
and  the  noise  of  the  crowd  died  away  in  the  distance. 

It  was  old  Rousseau  who,  unable  to  make  head  01 
tail  of  the  contradictory  orders  which  he  had  received^ 
had  resolutely  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  demon- 
strators, and,  stepping  out  briskly — just  as  on  each 
14th  of  July  he  was  accustomed  to  lead  the  fire-brigade 
— he  conducted  the  procession  to  the  villa,  with  a 
joyous  rat-a-tat. 


CHAPTER  IV 

About  midday  the  crowd,  which  until  then  had  been 
good-tempered,  roughly  invaded  the  King's  Domain, 
trampling  on  the  lawns,  plundering  the  kitchen  garden; 
and  a  great  human  sea  surged  against  the  four  walls 
of  the  villa.  A  ceaseless  hum  ascended  from  the  multi- 
tude :  sometimes  a  more  violent  clamour  arose,  like  a 
wave,  and  broke  itself  at  the  foot  of  the  house.  But 
the  door  remained  shut,  the  windows  did  not  open. 
The  saint  had  shown  himself  once,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  tumult  only  those  in  the  front  rank  had  heard 
his  words. 

Heads  rose  out  of  the  crowd,  to  breathe  a 
little  air  and  to  look  around,  but  the  surf  passed, 
and  the  black  waters  of  the  crowd  engulfed  every- 
thing, while  other  faces  appeared  above  craning 
necks. 

The  heat  was  overwhelming;  it  was  one  of  those 
thundery  days  when  there  seems  to  be  no  air.  The 
light  was  dim.  The  blue  hills  on  the  horizon  dwindled 
under  the  low  skies,  as  though  afraid.  Thunder_ rolled 
in  the  distance. 

The  trees  were  laden  with  urchins  who  clustered  in 
their  branches.  Others  sat  on  the  window-sills  of  the 
out-houses,  and  it  was  a  matter  for  wonder  how  they 
could  have  climbed  so  high.  Sometimes  the  ladder  of 
a  cinema  operator  swayed  perilously,  and  frightened 
women  uttered  shrill  cries,  already  foreseeing  the 
moment  when  man  and  box  would  fall  on  them.  All 
these  sweating  bodies  now  formed  one  solid  mass. 
Tired  of  marking  time,  some  of  the  curious  emerged 
from  the  crush  and  returned  to  the  Avenue,  where  at 
least  they  were  able  to  breathe.  Hawkers  threaded 
their  way  through  the  groups. 

84 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  85 

"La  Derniere  Heure,  buy  La  Derniere  Heure,  Noon 
Edition."    .    .    . 

The  crowd  was  speaking  of  nothing  but  miracles, 
and  the  thousands  of  voices  purred  like  a  prayer.  The 
atmosphere  and  the  waiting  engendered  fever.  A 
single  cure  only  was  certain  so  far,  that  of  the  little 
girl,  but  others  were  being  invented,  under  cover  of 
that  ubiquitous  "they  say"  which  knows  everything 
and  is  always  believed. 

Everyone  was  talking  about  paralytics  cured,  blind 
whose  sight  had  been  restored,  of  the  well  which  had 
been  suddenly  filled;  and  these  lies  produced  shivers 
of  anticipation.  Their  souls,  their  minds,  had  yet  to 
blend  together,  like  their  breath;  one  single  anxious 
heart  was  beating  for  them  all. 

Tlie  multitude  was  undergoing  a  nervous  tension,  a 
crisis  of  impatience;  and  those  who  had  congregated 
on  the  lawn,  where  they  could  see  nothing,  suddenly 
began  to  jostle  each  other,  and  to  shout.  But  the 
compact  mass  remained  unshaken.  It  panted  for 
breath,  but  it  did  not  budge. 

The  crowd  only  moved  asunder,  leaving  a  narrow 
passage  through  which  the  infirm  trickled  in  a  thin 
stream;  as  the  thronged  terrace  could  hold  no  more, 
they  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  small  staircase,  and 
those  who  were  more  fervent  kissed  the  step  where 
Magloire  Dubourg,  lifting  the  child  in  his  arms,  had 
performed  his  first  miracle.  Around  the  well,  the 
sick  and  the  cripples  pressed,  like  a  hospital  in  the 
open  air,  some  squatting  on  the  ground,  others  resting 
on  cane  seats,  or  lying  in  easy-chairs  and  on  stretchers. 
Those  who  were  able  to  drag  themselves  along  were 
grouped  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
exhausted,  shivering;  here  the  bluish  temple  of  a  child 
pressing  against  the  knees  of  a  mother,  encountered 
by  chance;  there,  a  neurasthenic,  twitching  convul- 
sively, who  nevertheless  thrust  back  with  disgust  a 
coughing  consumptive.  They  all  had  horrible  faces 
with     projecting     bones     and     bloated     flesh.     Their 


86  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

crutches,  grasped  between  their  spare  fingers,  rose 
above  these  emaciated  forms,  like  crosses  akeady 
planted  above  them. 

Hidden  behind  the  curtains  of  the  drawing  room, 
the  saint  was  gazing  at  the  poor  wretches,  his  heart 
heavy  within  him.  Behind  him,  Yvonne,  moved  with 
pity,  whispered, 

"If  it  starts  raining,  there  will  be  no  time  to  carry 
them  away — some  are  going  to  die.    ..." 

"True,"  said  the  Evangelist,  "in  the  church  they 
would  find  shelter." 

As  he  looked  at  them,  he  begged  Heaven  to  pardon 
him  this  idolatrous  worship,  which  men  were  rendering 
him. 

He  had  been  one  of  the  last  to  hear  of  the  little 
girl's  cure,  and  was  scarcely  astonished  by  it.  God 
had  wished  it.  .  .  .  Perhaps  their  unreasoning  con- 
fidence would  allow  the  truth,  of  which  he  was 
depository,  to  spring  up  all  the  better.  .  .  .  His 
ardent  eyes  searched  for  faith  in  those  other  anguished 
ones. 

The  scenes  which  unrolled  themselves  were  alter- 
nately ludicrous  and  pathetic.  In  her  dress  of  black 
serge,  the  widow  Pele  stood  up  a  gaunt  figiu-e  in  the 
midst  of  the  sick.  By  dint  of  nagging  and  the  play  of 
her  bony  elbows,  she  had  been  able  to  slip  up  to  the 
house,  where  she  had  appointed  herself  overseer  of  the 
invalids.  She  directed  their  prayers  with  her  peevish 
voice;  when  aU  were  beginning  to  moan  in  unison  she 
intoned  the  cry  of  Lourdes — "Lord,  cure  our  sick," 
and  her  yelping  pierced  the  ear. 

"Lord,  cure  our  sick,"  the  crowd  repeated  in  a 
hollow  murmur. 

Whenever  the  hubbub  diminished  the  bigot  struck 
up  a  hymn,  beating  the  measure  with  her  black  psalm 
book. 

Advised  by  the  natives,  the  curious  had  walked 
round  the  estate,  having  entered  it  by  the  fields,  but 
at  once  they  had  found  themselves  pressed  in  hundreds 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  B>7 

against  the  espalier-covered  wall,  and  no  one  could 
get  through  the  narrow  door  of  the  terrace.  Unable 
to  see  anything,  they  had  to  content  themselves  with 
hearing  the  noise  of  the  crowd,  and  they  waited  in  the 
expectation  of  something  happening  to  make  them 
move  on.  Those  who  were  most  tired  sat  down  on 
the  sorrel  borders.  To  pass  the  time  they  tried  to 
imitate  the  strident  voice  of  Mme.  Pele,  which  never 
stopped  bawling.  As  soon  as  she  began  to  sing,  they 
shouted  to  her. 

"Shut  up,  you  will  frighten  him.  .  .  .  Haven't 
you  finished  clucking?"  while  a  brat,  sitting  astride 
the  wall,  copied  her  in  a  squeaky  voice. 

"Lord,  cure  our  sick!" 

In  the  park,  there  were  fewer  people;  it  was  possible 
to  rest  at  ease.  Families,  with  their  string-bags  of 
provisions,  had  settled  themselves  on  the  grass;  one 
could  have  imagined  oneself  in  the  woods  of  Vincennes. 
Children  were  swinging  on  a  rope  fixed  between  two 
trees.  Men  in  shirt-sleeves  went  across  to  Dumarchey's 
to  buy  wine. 

They  did  not  return  at  once,  for  the  miraculously 
cured  little  girl  was  in  the  dancing  hall,  where  the 
doctors  were  examining  her;  and  the  com"t-yard  was 
crowded.  All  along  the  glass  partition  curious  people 
had  their  eyes  glued  to  the  panes.  Some  kindly  ambu- 
lance men,  burdened  with  bandaging  outfits  and 
stretchers,  had  set  up  a  first-aid  station  there. 

"It  is  to  look  after  those  whom  the  saint  will  be 
too  lazy  to  attend  to,"  scoffed  Milot,  who  alone  had 
maintained  a  mocking  attitude  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
enthusiasm. 

The  little  girl,  with  flushed  cheeks,  sat  exhausted 
at  the  foot  of  the  platform,  as  though  on  an  altar  of 
paper  streamers.  Tired  of  repeating  the  same  story 
twenty  times,  she  had  now  become  silent.  Her  little 
forehead  was  burning.  The  two  doctors  had  kept 
her  for  an  hour,  examining,  questioning,  sounding  her; 
and   the   old   physician   shrugged   his   shoulders   with 


88  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

impatience  when  the  young  doctor  wrung  a  cry  from 
her. 

Old  Rouquette,  a  worthy  man  of  fatherly  presence, 
who  had  physicked  the  district  for  the  last  thirty  years, 
was  ready  to  admit  a  kind  of  miraculous  cure,  perhaps 
aided  by  auto-suggestion;  but  Dr.  Blum,  a  lanky 
young  man  with  horn-rimmed  spectacles,  who  had 
recently  established  himself  at  Barlincourt,  where  he 
had  introduced  the  last  word  in  fashionable  thera- 
peutics from  Paris,  remained  intractable  and  denied 
the  miracle. 

"Well,  one  thing  is  certain  at  all  events,"  grumbled 
the  old  practitioner,  "she  can  wallc  now,  and  she  no 
bnger  suffers." 

"That  is  not  enough  to  convince  me,"  retorted  the 
other,  tight-lipped.  And,  never  ceasing  to  take  notes, 
he  continued  his  inquiries.  He  asked  the  mother  for 
information  about  her  confinement,  whether  the  father 
drank,  in  what  hospital  the  child  had  been  treated, 
even  going  into  embarrassing  details  on  the  heredity 
of  the  child,  whether  there  had  been  venereal  disease 
or  insanity  in  the  family.  Then  he  turned  to  the  little 
girl,  feeling  her  legs  doubtfully,  as  if  hesitating  whether 
he  should  buy  her  or  not.  Behind  him,  leaning  for- 
ward, his  pince-nez  fixed  on  his  nose,  M.  Rouquette 
also  looked  at  the  child. 

"It  is  obvious,"  he  diagnosed,  "scrofulous  necrosis, 
by  Jove  !     It  is  as  clear  as  daylight." 

Full  of  his  own  importance,  Dr.  Blum  did  not 
answer;  he  was  still  busily  scribbling.  At  last  he 
declared, 

"  I  have  enough  data  now  :  I  am  going  to  draw  up 
my  report." 

"Very  well,  sir,  so  shall  I,"  exploded  Rouquette, 
as  if  taking  up  a  challenge,  "and  probably  we  shall 
not  agree." 

They  sat  down  at  the  same  table,  face  to  face;  and, 
watching  each  other  stealthily,  they  began  to  write  two 
reports,  which  contradicted  each  other  in  every  detaU. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  89 

Dr.  Blum  murmured  scraps  of  speech,  "Nervous 
coxalgy  .  .  .  general  neuropathic  condition.  .  .  , 
Acute  pains  on  the  left  side  of  the  rhachis,  without 
objective  signs." 

In  the  meantime  he  was  thinking  : 

"If  this  old  bone-setter  maintains  there  has  been  a 
miracle,  I  will  ruin  him  in  the  whole  district." 

Meanwhile  Rouquette,  shaking  his  fountain  pen, 
growled  into  his  beard  : 

"He  doesn't  even  know  enough  to  distinguish  a 
child  that  is  ill  from  one  that  isn't.  ...  No  fear 
that  you'll  get  my  practice,  mountebank,    ..." 

The  little  girl  had  only  a  few  faded  flowers  remaining 
from  her  posy.  She  had  flung  them  to  the  crowd, 
giving  them  into  all  the  outstretched  hands,  but  sud- 
denly she  decided  : 

"I'll  keep  the  rest  for  myself." 

She  had  then  been  offered  money;  people  besieged 
the  mother  with  entreaties,  and  a  sort  of  tariff  was 
established.  A  spray  of  lily-of-the-valley  reached  ten 
francs.  It  was  this  that  gave  Petit  Louis  the  idea  of 
also  selling  relics;  he  had  despoiled  the  garden  on  the 
sly  of  all  its  flowers,  even  to  the  Marechal  Joffre  in  the 
large  flower-bed,  and  the  plants  in  bud  in  the  hot- 
houses, to  sell  them  to  the  loafers. 

"Who  hasn't  got  a  pretty  souvenir?"  he  bawled  in 
front  of  the  cafe.  "Flowers  gathered  by  Saint  Mag- 
loire.     Who  hasn't  got  a  lucky  charm  ? " 

The  little  girl  had  been  photographed  at  least  ten 
times  for  the  newspapers,  and  the  hall  was  filled  with 
the  acrid  fumes  of  magnesium.  Dead  with  fatigue, 
the  mother  had  but  one  idea,  to  return  to  Paris;  lassi- 
tude had  subdued  her  feverish  joy,  and,  sitting  with 
bruised  limbs  in  her  chair,  she  wearily  answered  the 
reporters.  It  fell  to  Dr.  Rouquette  to  give  them 
information,  and  this  he  did  with  the  loquacity  of  a 
showman  at  a  fair. 

"A  wonderful  case,  gentlemen.  A  child  who  has 
been  treated  for  necrosis  for  years.     The  illness  began 


90  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

with  anchylosis  of  both  insteps.  .  .  .  Lower  your 
stocking,  my  darling.    ..." 

The  inquisitive  groups  in  the  courtyard,  tired  of 
waiting  to  no  purpose,  were  returning  to  the  King's 
Domain,  attracted  thither  by  the  noise.  The  crowd, 
greater  than  ever,  was  overwrought  by  the  approaching 
thunderstorm.  The  wind  blew  in  sudden  gusts,  the 
trees  of  the  park  creaked  under  the  onset  of  the  storm. 
It  was  hardly  three  o'clock,  and  aheady  as  dark  as  night. 

"Real  Good  Friday  weather,"  said  the  women. 

The  dim  light  distorted  the  faces  :  the  same  anguish 
oppressed  all  hearts.  They  felt  they  had  reached  the 
limit  of  their  endurance,  something  had  to  happen, 
they  could  wait  no  longer.    .    .    . 

The  thunder  with  a  continuous  rumble  drew  closer, 
and  each  squall  wrested  large  warm  rain-drops  from 
the  low  clouds.     Palms  were  extended  questioningly  : 

"Now,  then    .    .    .    it's  going  to  rain.    ..." 

The  sick,  trembling  with  fear,  began  to  cry  and 
complain.  They  gazed  at  the  door  of  the  villa  with 
beseeching  eyes.     "If  he  had  been  willing.    ..." 

"Have  pity  on  us,"  shouted  a  cripple  who  was 
leaning  against  the  wall. 

The  copper-hued  sky  oppressed  them,  the  rolling 
of  the  thunder  hurt  them.  The  piercing  voice  of 
Madame  Pele  remained  without  an  echo;  a  few  ex- 
hausted voices  alone  took  up  the  words  : 

"We  want  God,  He  is  our  Father, 
We  want  God,  He  is  our  King.    ..." 

The  hubbub  of  the  multitude  smothered  the  h5rmn. 
They  trod  on  each  other  until  they  groaned,  sweat 
pouring  down  their  foreheads.  At  last  a  supreme 
clamour  burst  from  them  under  a  new  increase  of  pres- 
sure : 

"Lord,  heal  our  sick." 

Abruptly  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  opened 
ar.d  Saint  Magloire  appeared  before  them. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  91 

An  acclamation  rose,  a  cry  of  ecstasy  burst  from 
ten  thousand  throats,  followed  by  a  silence  so  deep 
that  one  could  hear  at  the  end  of  the  lawn  the  con- 
vulsive sobbing  of  the  sick,  raised  on  their  stretchers. 

Standing  upright  in  the  recess,  the  saint  dominated 
the  crowd,  motionless,  carved,  in  the  brown  velvet  of 
his  coat,  like  a  church  statue  in  old  wood.  Their 
eyes  devoured  him  greedily.  Nothing  was  heard  but 
a  protracted  and  relieved  cry  of  "Ah." 

Then  one  invalid  yelled,  brandishing  her  crutch  : 

"Saint,  heal  me  !" 

The  others  at  once  set  up  cries  of  entreaty  :  the 
whole  of  the  horrible  hospital,  swept  by  the  gathering 
storm,  began  to  wail. 

"  Have  pity  !     Heal  us " 

Magloire  Dubourg  incUned  his  head,  his  eyes 
dimmed  by  tears,  and  humbly  crossed  himself.  Un- 
comprehendingly  all  those  present  followed  his 
example  and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

The  supplications  ascended  in  a  woeful  chorus. 
Twisted  on  his  stretcher  a  martyr  howled  : 

"Health  or  Death!     Death!    .    .    .    ." 

The  tidings  spread  like  a  wave  over  the  crowd, 
crossed  the  garden,  passed  beyond  the  railing,  reached 
the  avenue  : 

"He  has  come  out  \" 

People  bumped  against  each  other  in  their  efforts  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  him,  clutching  right  and  left; 
children  and  women  were  seized  and  held  up  over 
the  press.  Perched  on  his  ladder,  the  cinema  operator 
was  turning  his  crank. 

The  terrace  presented  an  appalling  scene.  The 
sick,  in  a  sort  of  madness,  were  undressing  with 
trembling  fingers  to  exhibit  their  infirmities;  sores 
appeared,  brutally  denuded;  from  under  the  dressings 
which  were  wrenched  away  and  the  tattered  garments 
emerged  fleshless  limbs,  breasts  broken  by  ulcers, 
the  putrid  fount  of  suffering.  Each  one  wished  to 
expose   yet   more   horrible   infirmities,    to   attract   the 


92  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

attention  of  the  saint  and  awaken  his  pity,  and  they 
vociferated  with  twitching  faces,  hoping  to  be  the 
first  to  monopolise  his  all-powerful    glance, — 

"Heal  me  !     Heal  me  !" 

"I  have  three  small  children.  Have  pity  on  my 
small  children  ! " 

Their  intermingled  voices  formed  but  one  atrocious 
lamentation.  The  struggle  went  on  fiercely  from 
stretcher  to  stretcher.  The  less  feeble  clutched  at 
the  others  with  ferocious  hands  and  forced  them 
savagely  backwards  in  order  to  show  themselves  first. 
The  helpless  paralytics  sobbed,  imploring  to  be  lifted 
up.  Clinging  to  each  other,  haggard,  convulsed,  they 
di-agged  themselves  like  the  dead  from  the  earth  on 
which  they  lay.  Some  tore  at  their  wounds,  to  make 
them  still  more  horrible.  They  wept,  stretching  forth 
child-like  hands.  It  was  like  a  horrible  competition 
with  a  miracle  for  its  prize. 

Magloire  Dubourg,  his  heart  pierced  with  sorrow, 
would  have  liked  to  tell  them  that  he  was  powerless 
to  help,  that  he  could  only  weep  with  them,  but  his 
courage  failed  him. 

"  Health  or  Death  ! "  the  cancerous  man  with  the 
leaden  complexion  still  continued  to  cry. 

A  tall  man,  miserably  clothed,  stood  among  the 
human  wreckage  and  stared  into  emptiness^  his 
glassy  eyes  seeing  nothing. 

"Is  he  there?  Is  he  there?"  gasped  the  raucous 
voice.  "He  will  cure  me,  won't  he?  ...  .  He  is 
looking  at  me?     Tell  me,  is  he  looking  at  me?" 

As  he  craned  his  neck  in  his  fierce  desire  to  see, 
the  thunder  pealed  forth  and  lightning  which  rent 
the  shadows  suddenly  illuminated  the  saint  with  a 
dazzling  radiance.  A  fleeting  vision  :  Magloire  Du- 
bourg blessing  the  crowd  with  raised  hands.  The 
shattering  noise  of  the  thunderbolt  deafened  them. 

"  I  can  see  ! "  yelled  the  blind  man. 

He  leaped  into  the  midst  of  the  dying  who  sur- 
rounded him,   crushing  their  bodies,   and  waved  his 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  93 

arms  about  with  a  wide  movement  full  of  mad, 
exultation.  Pallid,  grimacing  with  a  senseless  smile 
which  split  his  cheeks,  he  smote  his  head  with  his 
fists. 

"  I  can  see  !     I  am  cured  ! " 

His  demented  voice,  born  amid  the  thunder,  passed 
over  these  thousands  of  heads,  proclaiming  the  miracle, 
and  a  shudder  ran  through  the  multitude,  like  an 
electric  ciurent  passing  through  them  all. 

They  listened,  still  deafened  by  the  noise,  breath- 
less, their  hearts  at  a  stand-still.  But,  their  stupor 
once  dispelled,  a  joyful  clamour  arose;  the  irresistible 
wave  of  the  crowd  threw  its  foremost  ranks  towards 
the  villa,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  tiunult  an  eddy  of 
vociferating  human  beings  was  suddenly  let  loose. 
Invalids,  beside  themselves,  caught  by  the  delirium, 
lifted  themselves  up  for  the  first  time  on  their 
stretchers.  A  cripple  raised  by  an  unknown  power 
stood  up.  A  squatting  woman,  who  was  moaning 
with  the  torture  of  her  disease,  felt  her  pain  depart- 
ing suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  as  if  a  red- 
hot  iron  had  been  withdrawn  from  a  wound.  She 
too  uttered  the  cry  of  the  miracle,  in  a  heart-rending 
voice  : 

"  I  am  cured  !     A  miracle  ! A  miracle  ! " 

And  throwing  herself  in  her  turn  into  the  struggling 
crowd,  she  hiuled  herself  towards  the  saint  strangled 
by  her  words  and  sank  down  at  his  feet,  overwhelmed 
with  joy,  twisting  the  hem  of  his  cape  in  her  skinny 
fingers,  kissing  and  biting  it  till  she  choked. 

The  crowd  seethed.  A  second  storm  under  the 
tempestous  sky,  with  shrieks  for  lightnings  .... 
the  electrified  crowd  of  idlers  and  half-clad  invalids 
mingled,  gesticulating,  shouting,  in  a  hideous  uproar 
which  drowned  the  entreaties  of  the  cripples  and  the 
cries  of  women  who  were  being  trampled  upon. 
Bursts  of  chanting  arose  from  time  to  time  as  on 
wings,   only   to   sink   back   into   the   noise.     Yet   the 

G 


94  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

powerftil  voice  of  the  saint  dominated  the  tumult. 
His  eyes  were  searching  for  those  who,  helpless, 
trodden  underfoot,  were  lost  in  the  surge,  and  he  cried 
out  despairingly  : 

"To  the  church!      Bring  the  sick  to  the  church!" 

Instantly  an  orderly  procession  was  formed  in  the 
midst  of  the  confusion,  no  one  knew  how.  The 
stretchers,  from  which  lank  hands  drooped  despair- 
ingly, passed  out  through  a  breach  cut  in  the  crowd. 
Those  who  were  not  cured;  those  on  crutches,  the 
sick  who  were  held  up  under  the  arms,  came  behind; 
then,  in  a  vortex  of  men  bawling  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  came  those  who  had  been  miraculously  healed, 
carried  along  in  triumph.  This  little  band  wended 
its  way  through  the  crowd  like  a  caterpillar  of  human 
heads;  it  moved  forward  solidly,  on  invisible  feet, 
almost  without  stirring,  propelled  by  its  own  weight. 

In  the  avenue,  order  was  to  some  extent  restored. 
The  empty  stretcher  of  a  woman  who  had  been  cured 
led  the  procession,  like  a  banner.  At  the  head  walked 
the  saint,  and  the  blind  man,  gamboUed  before  him, 
grotesque  and  terrifying,  waving  his  long  arms  emd 
crying  perpetually  like  one  distraught : 

" I  can  see  !     I  can  see  ! " 

Through  every  door  simultaneously,  through  the 
sacristy,  by  the  side  aisles,  the  fanatics  invaded  the 
church.  Feverishly  the  cripples  were  carried  in,  and 
the  rumbling  thunder  drove  the  stretcher-bearers 
forward.  The  black  wall  of  the  storm  was  coming 
nearer,  creviced  with  lightnings,  and  the  first  drops, 
in  a  gust,  rattled  on  the  dry  leaves  of  the  plane-trees 
in  the  square. 

"All  the  sick  are  inside,"  cried  someone. 

Then,  as  though  they  had  been  waiting  for  this 
signal,  the  heavens  burst  in  a  deluge.  The  crowd 
which  had  stayed  outside  fled,  shrieking,  taking  refuge 
in  the  houses,  and  under  the  trees.  The  church  was 
so  full  that  it  was  impossible  to  stir.  People  had 
climbed  on  to  the  seats,  the  prayer-stools,  the  pulpit. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  95 

A  small  boy  scrambled  up  to  the  pedestal  of  the 
Immaculate  Conception,  and  clung  to  the  blue  robe 
to  save  himself  from  falling.  Magloire  Dubourg 
mounted  the  three  steps  of  the  choir.  Those  whom 
he  had  healed,  three  women  and  a  blind  man,  knelt 
at  his  feet  : 

"If  these  have  been  saved,  it  is  by  God's  wUl," 
proclaimed  the  Evangelist,  laying  his  hands  on  their 
brows. 

"  God  wills  it !  God  wills  it ! "  answered  a  man  at 
the  top  of  his  voice. 

Sobs  rose  up  like  incense  from  the  nave.  The 
cripples,  with  hope  renewed,  pleaded  with  trembling 
lips  and  eyes  full  of  tears.  Women  sang  distractedly. 
In  the  first  row  of  the  transept,  the  widow  Pele  was 
squeaking  : 

"Lord  !  make  my  son  die  in  a  state  of  grace.    .    .    ." 

And  by  puhing  at  his  ears,  she  forced  Josephin  to 
bow  his  head.  In  the  sacristy,  the  Abbe  Choisy, 
losing  his  head,  was  unable  to  get  into  his  chasuble. 
He  was  trembling  in  every  limb. 

"We  wiU  sing  thanksgivings,"  he  gasped  in  a  stifled 

voice "And     I've     no     one     to     play     the 

organ My  God,  it  is  my  greatest  day.    .    .    ." 

Vehement  clamouring  shook  the  window  panes. 

"A  miracle!     A  miracle!"  howled  the  multitude. 

A  new  cure  had  just  taken  place.  The  beggar  at 
the  church,  the  epileptic  who  used  to  sit  twitching 
under  the  porch,  had  been  swept  away  by  the  crowd 
as  it  entered,  carried  right  up  to  the  Sanctuary,  and 
thrown  down  before  the  Altar.  A  terrible  fear  had 
taken  hold  of  him. 

"He  wiU  cure  me I  shall  not  be  able  to 

beg  any  more " 

He  was  in  such  a  condition  that  his  inert  limbs 
began  to  shiver.  Pushed  hither  and  thither,  he 
stumbled,  and  his  hands,  as  he  fell,  touched  the 
mantle  of  the  saint.  He  received  something  hke  a 
shock,  and  pulled  himself  up  again  with  a  frightened 


96  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

spring.  He  was  standing  upright  now,  trembling 
no  longer;  his  teeth  had  ceased  chattering.  Horror- 
stricken  he  looked  at  the  saint. 

"Leave  me  alone,  leave  me  alone,"  he  stammered, 
unable  to  tear  his  eyes  away  from  the  Evangelist. 

"It  is  the  Trembler  ....  the  Trembler  has 
been  healed  ! " 

The  terrified  beggar  tried  to  escape  seeking  to  bury 
himself  in  the  mob  and  disappear,  but  could  not;    he 

was  seized  and  carried  along Then  he  grew 

dizzy,  and  uttering  a  terrible  cry,  let  himself  drop 
on  the  steps  of  the  Sanctuary,  between  the  weeping 
cancerous  woman  and  the  blind  man,  who  was  laugh- 
ing in  the  ecstasy  of  seeing  the  sun  rise  again  on  the 
red  and  blue  panes  of  the  windows. 

There  was  high  festival  in  Barlincourt.  Lanterns 
were  being  lit  in  the  foliage  of  the  gardens;  it  might 
have  been  the  night  of  the  fourteenth  of  July. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  day,  the  sick  and  the  curious 
had  gone  back  to  Paris  in  crammed  trains.  The 
authorities  had  spread  a  report  that  Magloire  Dubourg 
had  been  summoned  to  Rome  by  the  Pope  and  had 
just  left  Barlincourt. 

The  streets,  however,  remained  in  a  state  of  ex- 
citement and  noise.  People  had  been  dining  at  all 
the  wine  shops;  tables  were  set  outside,  and  the 
public-houses  were  full  of  disorderly  customers,  some 
talking  about  medicine  and  religion,  while  others  sang 
popular  songs.  At  Dumarchey's  they  had  organised 
a  baU,  and  people  were  dancing  to  the  strains  of  a 
gramophone  for  which  Milot  chose  the  records. 
After  that  day  of  strain  there  had  come  a 
brusque  reaction,  a  craving  for  laughter  and 
amusement. 

At  the  Town  Hall,  the  Prefect  was  holding  an 
inquiry.  It  was  reported  that,  when  questioned  on 
the  subject  of  the  blind  man.  Dr.  Blum  and  Dr. 
Rouquette    had,    after    exhausting    their    arguments, 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  97 

come  to  blows,   and  that   it  had  been  necessary  to 
separate  them. 

"I  am  expecting  the  journaHsts  at  my  house,"  each 
had  shouted  as  they  left  the  Town  Hall.  "I  will 
give  them  proofs  ! " 

But  the  joumahsts  had  not  come;  they  were  too 
busy.  Gathered  at  the  Station  Cafe,  they  had  ar- 
rived without  anyone's  help  at  a  half-way  opinion, 
still  in  a  state  of  excitement,  they  were  beginning 
their  articles  hurriedly  while  they  ate  their  ham.  At 
the  telephone  which  had  remained  open  for  the  occa- 
sion, they  could  be  heard  dictating  the  details  of  the 
miracles.  They  had  agreed  to  call  the  blind  man 
Barnabas,  for  the  reporters  set  on  his  track  had  not 
been  able  to  find  him  and  no  one  knew  his  name  :  it 
would  be  easy  enough  to  rechristen  him  again  next 
day.  To  fill  in  the  time  till  he  could  get  a  portrait 
of  him,  Hardy  had  photographed  a  lorry-driver  who 
at  a  distance  looked  a  little  like  him. 

M.  Quatrepomme  was  triumphant.  He  had  been 
driving  about  all  the  afternoon  in  the  Prefect's  motor- 
car to  impress  his  constituents,  and  now  that  his  day 
was  over  he  was  very  proud  of  it. 

"I  have  shown  that  I  have  a  will  of  my  own,"  he 
declared. 

And  to  sustain  this  reputation  he  had  just  signed 
the  dismissal  of  old  Rousseau,  the  town  drummer, 
condemned  as  incapable.  Rousseau  was  indeed  the 
only  victim  of  the  day,  except  an  old  fellow  who  had 
died  at  Dumarchey's  from  the  energetic  attentions 
lavished  on  him  by  immature  ambulance-men. 

Abbe  Choisy  was  rejoicing.  At  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening  he  had  held  a  special  service,  and  by 
order  of  his  mother  Josephin  Pele  had  seen  to  it 
that  the  bell  rang  incessantly,  but  at  intervals  he  was 
relieved  by  Milot  to  whom  M.  Aubernon  had  given 
twenty  francs. 

After  Benediction,  the  Vicar-General  of  the  Bishopric 
had  arrived,  asking  the  parish  priest  to  take  him  to 


98  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

Magloire  Dubourg.  As  they  went  along  Abbe  Chowy, 
still  quite  upset,  narrated  the  miracles ;  then  he 
mentioned  the  singular  opinions  which  the  Evangelist 
had  expounded  to  him  the  day  before. 

"Possibly  a  power,  possibly  a  danger,"  the  Vicar- 
General  murmured  anxiously. 

Before  the  King's  Domain  a  close  cordon  had  been 
drawn,  but  the  priests  were  allowed  to  enter. 

They  crossed  the  plundered  garden,  skirted  the 
park  and  entered  the  house.  Abbe  Choisy,  dazzled, 
blinked  his  eyes  as  he  entered  the  brilliantly-lighted 
drawing  room.  He  did  not  recognise  at  the  first  glance 
all  the  people  who  were  present;  the  Dubourgs  had 
sent  out  a  great  many  invitations.  He  advanced 
smiling,  ^vith  bows  to  right  and  left. 

"V^Tiat  a  splendid  day!"  he  said.  .  .  .  "WTiat  a 
triumph  for  religion  ! " 

The  Vicar-General  interrupted  him. 

"I  asked  M.  Choisy  to  bring  me  to  you,  Madame,' 
he  said,   greeting  Mme.   Dubourg.     "I  was  impatient 
to  meet  our  great  traveller." 

The  two  men  bowed  and  shook  hands,  the  traveller, 
despite  his  stoop,  still  towering  above  the  Bishop's 
envoy. 

"Let  us  go  out,  shall  we?"  asked  the  latter. 

The  wide  lawn  was  as  smooth  as  sleeping  water, 
and  the  rising  moon  laid  timorous  shadows  across  it. 
Noises  came  from  everywhere  in  the  quiet  night  air, 
and  the  joyous  chirp  of  the  grasshopper  weighed  as 
heavily  on  the  silence  as  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  which 
were  being  driven  homewards.  Far  away  on  the 
market-place,  young  men  were  singing,  and  around 
their  sonorous  chant  the  shrill  voice  of  a  child  seemed 
to  gambol  like  a  young  dog  at  play.  From  the  clear 
sky  fell  showers  of  stars. 

The  Vicar  had  plucked  a  tuft  of  anise,  which  he 
crushed  between  his  fingers,  inhaling  its  perfume.  He 
hesitated  to  speak,  for  he  was  more  moved  than  he 
wished  to  show. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  99 

"Sir,  the  Church  akeady  owes  you  a  great  deal,  and 
will  owe  you  still  more  in  the  future,"  he  began  at 
last.  "To-day  you  have  indeed  achieved  wonders, 
and  we  greet  you  as  one  of  the  most  glorious  of  God's 
servants.  It  may  be  that  you  possess  a  superhuman 
power,  in  any  case  you  have  gained  a  magnificent 
ascendancy  over  the  public,  and  it  is  great  good  for- 
tune for  the  Faith  to  possess  such  a  propagandist  as 
you.  .  .  .  It  is  indeed  above  all  to  bid  you  welcome 
that  I  am  paying  you  this  visit,  which  is  not  of&cial, 
but  of  which  His  Eminence  is  not  unaware.  You  are 
a  great  Christian.    ..." 

They  had  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  where 
the  gravel,  white  under  the  moon,  ran  between  two 
grass  banks.  The  Vicar-General  communed  with 
himself  for  a  moment  before  proceeding.  He 
smoothed  his  hair  with  a  hand  that  was  scented 
with  anise. 

"But  aU  the  same,"  he  continued,  weighing  his 
words,  "we  thought  that,  in  the  interest  of  religion, 
which  you  have  always  served  so  wonderfully,  you 
would  yourself  wish  to  give  certain  explanations  to 
the  ecclesiastical  authorities.  For  instance,  with  re- 
gard to  the  marvellous  cures  of  to-day.  ,  .  .  You 
are  well  aware  that  they  may  benefit  our  cause,  but 
also  they  might  do  it  harm  if  we  failed  to  act  with 
the  greatest  discretion." 

The  saint  looked  closely  at  the  young  prelate. 

"You  doubt  me,  do  you  not?"  he  said  gently. 

The  Vicar-General  raised  hb  head. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  exclaimed  with  evident  sincerity.  "I 
admire  j^ou.  But  think  of  the  responsibility  we  incur 
in  acknowledging  these  cures  as  miracles.  Even  at 
Lourdes,  where  it  is  the  Blessed  Virgin  who  performs 
the  cures,  we  ask  the  doctors  to  confirm  them." 

"Well,"  said  the  Evangelist,  "you  must  stiU  apply 
to  them.  I  know  nothing.  ...  I  saw  these  poor 
folks,  I  prayed  for  them;  but  if  some  of  them  have 
been  kealed  it  is  to  God  alone  that  they  owe  it.     I 


TOO  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

did  nothing;  and  I  don't  believe  in  the  power  of  my 
poor  wounded  hands." 

Magloire  Dubourg  was  facing  the  evening  hght,  his 
countenance  was  sweet  and  grave,  two  luminous  points 
glowed  within  the  hollow  sockets  of  his  eyes.  The 
Vicar-General  felt  profoundly  disturbed,  and,  taking 
the  hands  of  the  saint,  he  lifted  them  devoutly  to  his 
lips,  to  kiss  the  scars.  The  Evangelist  hardly  noticed 
the  gesture. 

"Have  you  put  before  the  journalists  the  scheme 
which  you  confided  to  the  White  Fathers  on  your 
voyage?"  asked  the  priest  after  a  moment. 

"No,"  said  the  Evangelist,  "I  wished  to  discuss  it 
first  with  the  Heads  of  the  Church." 

Then,  standing  still,  he  looked  fixedly  at  the  Vicar. 

"But  let  me  tell  you,  Monseigneur,"  he  continued, 
"that  nothing  will  prevent  me  from  speaking  the 
truths  which  have  been  revealed  to  me.  The  time 
has  come  to  establish  the  law  of  God  on  earth,  and 
no  one  has  the  right  to  impose  silence  on  Him  Who 
sends  me." 

The  priest  shivered. 

"So  you  claim  to  speak  in  the  name  of  God,"  he 
said  distinctly,  "but  consider  in  what  a  formidable 
dilemma  the  Church  will  find  itself.  .  ,  .  We  can- 
not, without  injuring  ourselves,  disown  a  splendid 
man  who  has  done  so  much  for  the  Faith,  a  wonder- 
worker, almost  a  martyr;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
how  are  we  to  give  free  rein  to  a  man  who  claims  to 
hold  from  God  a  doctrine  which  reason  and  the 
Councils  are  at  one  in  condemning  ? " 

"I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  Councils,  and  my 
judgment  is  too  frail  for  me  to  rely  on  it,"  replied  the 
saint. 

Putting  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  emissary, 
he  made  him  sit  down  on  the  stone  bench  and  himself 
sat  down  near  him.  A  hidden  nightingale  was  singing. 
The  fir-trees  threw  their  pointed  foliage  like  a  cloak 
over  the  nakedness  of  the  night.    At  the  end  of  the 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  loi 

garden,  the  lighted  window  of  the  drawing  room  made 
a  golden  splash,  the  colour  of  happiness.  With  bent 
brows  Magloire  Dubourg  was  calling  up  memories, 

"I  see  again  that  comer  of  the  Gabun  forest,"  he 
murmured;  "warm  vapour  rose  from  the  moist 
ground;  across  the  track  a  white-bellied  spider  had 
woven  his  web;  and  sticky  creepers  and  lianas  scented 
like  jasmine,  hung  down  in  green  cascades  from  the 
top  of  the  great  trees  with  their  red  trunks.  .  .  . 
Fruit  fell  on  the  soft  earth,  with  a  dull  thud.  ,  .  . 
I  was  alone,  and  yet  I  heard.  .  .  .  The  voice  was 
within  me.    ..." 

He  was  silent,  then,  after  a  pause : 

"I  know  it  now,  we  do  not  die.  It  is  on  earth 
that  the  soul  lives  and  will  live  again  xuiceasingly  till 
the  last  Judgment.  .  ,  .  Death  releases  us  for  a 
moment,  then  Life  takes  us  up  again  and  we  are  born 
once  more,  having  forgotten  everything.  With  a 
new  purity  and  new  hopes — to-day  in  the  body  of  a 
rich  man,  to-morrow  in  the  husk  of  a  beggar.  We 
return  each  time  to  the  common  fount  of  all  souls, 
then  we  descend  again,  like  a  drop  of  water  which 
evaporates  and  rises  towards  the  clouds,  to  fall  again 
in  the  guise  of  rain.  The  Divine  afflatus  which  lives 
within  us  cannot  have  been  bom  for  only  a  single  day; 
the  Master  said  to  Moses  in  the  burning  bush  :  '  God 
is  not  the  God  of  the  dead  but  the  God  of  the  living.' 
Life  is  eternal;  we  shall  no  more  die  than  the  rose- 
trees  that  are  withered  by  the  winter.  Like  them, 
we  only  change  our  corolla,  and  the  ages  of  the  world 
are  the  seasons  of  God.    ..." 

The  Vicar,  overwhelmed,  clasped  his  hands  : 

"But  how  can  you  possibly  pretend  .  .  .?"  he 
urged. 

"I  do  not  pretend,"  the  saint  interrupted  imperi- 
ously. "I  affirm.  This  truth  must  save  the  world. 
We  do  not  die  !  We  are  bound  for  ever  to  the  earth 
which  God  has  given  us,  and  the  task  of  mankind  is 
to    reconstruct    the    earthly    paradise    which    it    has 


103  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

destroyed.  Then  Christ  will  fall  of  His  own  will  from 
all  the  crucifixes,  for  it  will  no  longer  be  in  vain  that 
He  died  on  the  Cross.  One  single  life  is  nothing;  it 
will  be  by  all  our  lives  that  we  shall  be  judged.  To 
suppose  that  God  places  man  for  just  a  few  days  in 
the  midst  of  sensual  pleasures,  simply  to  tempt  him, 
to  drive  him  into  sin,  to  judge  him  without  appeal 
and  make  him  pay  for  one  second  of  error  by  an 
eternity  of  sufferings  :  that  is  sacrilege,  and  he  who 
believes  it  is  a  blasphemer." 

The  Vicar-General  recovered  his  self-control.  His 
soul  was  ready  to  surrender,  but  his  disciplined  intelli- 
gence fought  on. 

"But  you  know  that  this  belief  is  heretical,"  he 
cried  in  a  trembling  voice.  "The  texts  are 
explicit.    ..." 

"What  do  I  care?"  exclaimed  Saint  Magloire, 
sv/eeping  away  these  objections  with  a  gesture. 
"There  is  no  truth  but  in  the  Gospel.  For  centuries 
human  words  have  been  added  to  the  words  of  God. 
and  it  is  impossible  to  find  the  truth  under  this  pile  of 
rubbish  where  good  and  bad  are  inextricably  mixed 
together.  We  must  scrape  the  walls  of  the  Temple 
where  every  passer-by  has  written  his  own  hypothesis. 
God  has  need  of  fervent  hearts,  not  of  doctrinaires." 

The  Vicar-General  put  up  a  desperate  resistance. 
Tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  He  had  taken  the  sunburnt 
hands  of  the  saint  between  his  own  white  ones,  and 
he  was  still  hoping  to  convince  him. 

"But  at  least,"  he  implored,  "think  of  the  monstrous 
sin  you  are  about  to  commit.  You  who  are  all  faith 
and  goodness,  you  will  perhaps  bring  dissension  into 
the  Church,  or  at  least  group  behind  yourself  some 
unhappy  distracted  souls  who  Mdll  pay  for  your  visions 
in  an  eternity  of  suffering — you  wUl  deliver  them  to  Hell." 

The  saint  gazed  at  him  with  a  shade  of  bitterness. 

"Why  must  these  words  be  always  on  your  lips?" 
he  asked  sadly.  "Always  the  promise  of  heaven, 
always    the   menace    of    burning.    ...    I,    you    see. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  103 

would  like  to  be  able  to  destroy  both.  Heaven  and 
Hell,  so  that  God  might  be  loved  for  Himself.  .  .  . 
You  love  God,  but  not  as  He  should  be  loved.  Christ 
spoke  of  nothing  but  goodwill,  and  you  want  to  make 
Him  reign  by  terror.  .  .  .  You  who  accuse  me  of 
heresy,  you  yourselves  have  created  the  most  mon- 
strous of  all  heresies  by  setting  up  an  opposition  in  the 
hearts  of  men  between  the  Son  Whom  they  love  and 
the  Father  Whom  they  fear.  Every  time  that  a  son 
of  the  Church  prays  to  a  merciful  Christ  rather  than 
to  the  wrathful  God  of  Sinai,  Whom  you  have  trans- 
formed into  an  ogre,  a  crime  is  committed  against  the 
One  and  Only  Creator,  a  crime  for  which  you  are 
responsible." 

The  Vicar  bowed  his  head.  His  knitted  brows 
ploughed  two  furrows  in  the  middle  of  hLS  pale  fore- 
head. A  shudder  shook  the  frame  of  the  saint,  and 
his  voice  changed. 

"Forgive  me"  he  said,  bowing  humbly  before  the 
priest  and  seizing  his  clasped  hands.  "I  lose  my 
temper;  I  threaten;  my  poor  heart  boils  with  such 
ardour  that  I  am  not  able  to  master  it.  I  repent^ 
forgive  me.    ..." 

The  Vicar-General  without  answering  disengaged 
his  right  hand.  In  the  darkness  he  traced  a  sign  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  burning  forehead  of  the  saint. 

"I  pledge  myself  to  obey  you,"  said  the  Evangelist. 
"  All  that  I  can  do  without  betraying  my  mission  shall 
be  done.     What  are  your  orders?" 

"We  cannot  give  you  any  orders,"  answered  the 
Vicar,  with  a  beating  heart.  "  I  only  wanted  to  advise 
you  to  avoid  all  agitation,  and  also  any  premature 
statements.  For  this  reason,  the  ecclesiastical  authori- 
ties would  be  glad  if  you  would  make  a  short  retreat 
in  a  religious  house  near  Paris,  where  you  will  be  able 
to  have  some  useful  interviews  with  certain  people 
who  are  the  only  ones  entitled  to  give  you  a  hearing." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  saint,  drawing  himself  up. 
"I  wiU  start  at  dawn." 


104  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

Silence  again  fell  between  them.  The  priest  no 
longer  dared  to  put  any  questions.  He  felt  the  in- 
explicable glamour  of  the  stately  old  man,  and  as  he 
looked  at  him  a  weakness  to  which  he  was  a  stranger 
took  possession  of  him.  He  no  longer  doubted. 
Against  his  own  judgment  he  thought : 

"He  is  a  saint.    ..." 

Magloire  Dubourg  looked  into  himself  as  though 
into  a  mirror  and  sought  to  read  the  future. 

"Maybe,  in  trying  to  bring  about  the  reign  of  jus- 
tice, I  shall  unchain  iniquity,"  he  murmured,  opening 
his  eyes  wider,  as  if  seeing  a  vision.  "It  is  right  that 
it  should  be  so.  All  human  happiness  is  built  on 
suffering  :  there  is  a  Man  on  a  Cross  at  the  entrance 
to  the  City  of  God.  Joy  will  be  born  when  the  time  of 
trial  has  passed.  The  selfishness  of  man  has  turned 
this  world  into  a  hell,  but  goodwill  and  kindness  will 
show  the  way  back  to  our  lost  Paradise.  Eden  is  still 
here,  God  has  not  taken  away  its  docile  animals,  its 
abundant  fruits,  nor  any  of  its  riches  :  it  is  for  us  to 
reopen  the  closed  portals." 

It  seemed  as  if,  in  the  limpid  night,  the  stars  were 
waking — weary  of  their  long  stillness,  they  tore  them- 
selves from  the  skies  and,  at  any  moment,  they  could 
be  seen  dropping,  in  a  rapid  golden  curve.  Lost 
wishes.    .    .    . 

"Do  you  see  those  shooting  stars?"  asked  the  saint. 
"Our  eyes  follow  them  but  for  an  instant,  and  never- 
theless they  wend  their  way,  through  days  and  nights 
and  centuries,  in  sombre  wanderings.  Likewise,  out 
of  his  whole  eternal  life  man  only  sees  his  present 
span,  the  fleeting  moment  when  the  star  is 
shining.    ..." 

The  moon,  gliding  between  the  branches  of  the  lime- 
trees  whose  perfume  mingled  with  her  rays,  illumined 
the  crossed  hands  of  the  saint  and  his  transfigured 
countenance.     Gradually,   a  smile  parted  his  bearded 

lipS: 

"I  see,"  he  murmured.     "I  see.    .    .    .    Like  Him, 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  105 

I  shall  fall  beneath  the  weight  of  my  cross  and  shall 
not  rise,  but  others  following  will  carry  it  after  me, 
and  a  day  will  come  when  the  redeemed  world  will 
laugh  under  the  Eye  of  God.  Human  creatures  will 
love  each  other,  knowing  henceforth  that  they  are 
brothers,  and  the  weak  will  no  longer  envy  the  strong, 
knowing  that  the  human  husk  may  be  assumed  and 
cast  off  like  a  garment.  Christ  made  the  promise, 
but  none  will  listen  :  '  Blessed  are  the  meek,  for  they 
shall  inherit  the  earth  !  It  is  the  earth  that  He  gave 
us,  the  earth,  the  fruitful  Mother,  our  first  thriU  of 
consciousness,  our  last  sleep,  eternal  companion  of 
the  dead.    ..." 

He  stooped  a  little  and,  with  bent  head,  seemed  to 
watch  the  bright  light  of  the  moon  which  bathed  his 
feet. 

"I  see,"  he  continued  in  a  still  lower  voice,  as  if 
lost  in  ecstasy.  .  .  .  "My  freed  soul  will  float  in 
space,  cradled  by  the  winds,  waiting  to  live  anew  until 
the  memory  of  man,  by  forgetting  it,  has  set  it  free. 
Then  I  shall  be  born  again.  .  .  .  The  truth  I  have 
proclaimed  will  have  borne  fruit.  The  world  will  be 
better  and  I  shaU  not  know  that  I  have  made  it  so; 
I  shall  be  without  pride,  a  humble  servant.  .  .  . 
Nevertheless,  from  the  obscure  depths  of  past  lives, 
strange  memories  will  arise.  I  shall  pause,  my  mind 
far  away,  leaning  on  my  pickaxe  or  my  desk — which- 
ever Fate  has  given  me — and  I  shall  dream.  I  shall 
seem  to  be  wandering  through  fabulous  regions,  I 
shall  imagine  adventures,  depict  to  myself  strange 
unknown  countries,  and,  without  realising  it,  I  shall 
have  returned  in  dreams,  with  my  helmet  on  mj?^  head 
and  my  machete  at  my  side,  to  the  banks  of  the  Tchad 
where  the  sirens  swim." 


CHAPTER  V 

Magloire  Dubourg  had  arrived  at  Source  Josephine 
the  day  after  the  events  at  Barlincourt,  having  been 
discreetly  conducted  thither  by  a  Canon  from  Beau- 
vais.  The  house,  a  place  of  retreat  where  priests  who 
are  being  transferred  await  their  new  appointments 
and  tired  missionaries  recoup  their  strength,  stands 
on  the  slopes  of  Saint  Cucufa.  The  Evangelist  had 
met  several  Fathers  there  whom  he  had  known  in 
Africa. 

Seated  on  the  edge  of  the  rose-hued  fountain,  which 
was  full  of  the  gentle  murmur  of  running  water,  he 
spent  whole  hours  chatting  with  Father  Labry,  whose 
shattered  form  flitted  about  in  a  cassock  with  seams 
worn  white. 

In  his  quavering  voice,  the  old  missionary  brought 
back  to  him  recollections  of  the  dark  country;  and 
sang  as  he  clapped  his  hands : 

la,  ia,  Kakinde 

Allah,  Toubabou  Kakinde. 

Magloire  Dubourg  interrupted  him  with  his  sonorous 
laugh  : 

"Yes,  yes,  I  remember,  it  was  the  evening  I  arrived 
at  Fort  Roussel;  I  can  still  see  the  women  twisting 
themselves  about  and  the  three  musicians  shaking 
their  baskets  of  shells.  It  was  the  year  poor  Father 
Debroux  died." 

"I  made  you  eat  roast  iguana,  do  you  remember? 
At  that  time  I  used  to  think  it  tasted  of  rabbit;  now, 
when  they  give  me  rabbit  it  tastes  of  lizard.  Ah, 
thirty  years  of  Africa  do  change  a  man.  ...  I 
wonder  if  I  should  not  have  done  bett:r  to  die  out 

io6 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  107 

there.  .  .  .  What  about  you,  do  you  not  regret 
anything?" 

Magloire  Dubourg  grew  serious  again. 

"I  had  others  to  convert  here,"  he  murmured. 

His  retreat  at  Source  Josephine  was  known  only  to 
the  archbishop,  possibly  even  the  police  did  not  know 
of  it.  The  reporters  sent  out  to  hunt  for  him  had  not 
been  able  to  get  on  his  trail;  any  conjectures  as  to 
his  whereabouts  were  possible.  The  popular  report 
was  that  the  saint  had  made  himself  invisible  and 
that  he  would  soon  reappear  and  perform  more 
miracles. 

The  healings  at  Barlincourt  had  caused  widespread 
sensation;  the  whole  world  had  been  struck  with 
amazement.  That  day  of  wonders  staggered  the 
intellect. 

After  a  few  days,  however,  the  saint  having  dis- 
appeared, people  recovered  their  balance  and  discussed 
the  matter.  Since  there  was  nothing  more  of  interest 
to  be  got  out  of  the  six  miraculously  healed  people, 
who  had  been  interviewed,  examined  by  specialists 
and  photographed  in  every  attitude,  the  newspapers 
had  begun  to  make  inquiries  of  the  scientists,  the 
prelates,  even  of  certain  spiritualists.  Some  declared 
enthusiastically  for  the  miracles,  others  denied  them 
in  toto,  but  the  majority  were  half  inclined  to  believe, 
attributing  the  cures  geneially  to  the  neuropathic 
condition  of  the  patients  and  to  the  magnetic  power 
of  the  Evangelist,  aided  still  further  by  the  atmosphere 
of  an  unprecedented  demonstration.  They  made  com- 
parisons with  Lourdes,  and  recalled  the  case  of  the 
zouave  Jacob.  Professor  Malex,  the  youngest  member 
of  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  who  was  said  to  be  an 
atheist,  pointed  out  that  cures  were  aU  effected  on 
extremely  impressionable  subjects :  a  feeble-minded 
man  suffering  from  St.  Vitus'  dance;  a  little  girl  whose 
hip-disease  could  only  have  been  of  nervous  origin; 
a  woman  suffering  more  or  less  from  religious  mania, 
who  had  been  stricken  with  hemipl?gia  after  an  attack 


io8  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

of  apoplexy;  a  very  young  girl  who  had  been  treated 
for  chronic  myelitis,  and  another  woman  whom  ten 
physicians  had  trealed  in  vain  for  a  gastritis  alleged 
to  be  cancerous,  but  which  in  no  way  revealed  itself 
on  clinical  examination. 

There  still  remained  the  blind  man,  but  the  pro- 
fessor did  not  refer  to  him.  The  partisans  of  the 
miracles,  by  way  of  retaliation,  talked  more  of  him 
than  of  anyone  else.  One  fact  was  certain;  he  had 
been  blind,  in  receipt  of  State  assistance  as  a  helpless 
person;  and  since  the  miracle  he  had  been  able  to  see. 
The  Francais  had  published  a  facsimile  of  the  de- 
claration signed  by  the  doctor  at  the  Quinze-Vingts 
Hospital,  who  acknowledged  that  he  had  treated  the 
said  Joseph  Grignard  (not  Barnabas),  afflicted  with 
almost  total  blindness,  following  on  glaucoma,  and 
they  had  added  to  this  document  the  medical  note 
drawn  up  eighteen  months  previously,  in  which  all 
the  symptoms  were  given  :  obnubilations,  excavation 
of  the  optic  pupils,  greyish  tint  at  the  back  of  the  eye, 
inability  to  bear  the  light.  This  time  it  was  a  clear 
case  of  a  miracle. 

The  journalists,  who  were  holding  on  to  their  blind 
man,  had  harassed  him  in  vain  with  questions,  meanly 
trying  to  make  him  contradict  himself :  his  story  had 
never  varied.  They  followed  the  poor  devil  in  a  piti- 
less procession,  their  ears  always  on  the  alert;  they 
trotted  him  about  Paris,  they  took  him,  still  dressed 
in  rags,  to  the  big  restaurants;  they  made  him  drink, 
and  when  he  was  recognised  by  the  crowd,  demon- 
strations broke  out  from  which  he  came  away  stupefied, 
haggard,  and  with  new  rents  in  his  moth-eaten  coat. 
But,  even  at  such  moments  as  these,  they  could  not 
drag  out  of  him  the  smallest  contradiction;  there  was 
no  ground  whatever  for  suspecting  a  trick,  and  it  was 
absolutely  certain  that  before  the  miracle  he  had  not 
been  near  the  saint,  nor  even  heard  of  him. 

A  morning  paper  had  published  his  "Impressions," 
Daid  for  at  five  francs  a  line;   a  rival  had  bought  the 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  109 

"Memoirs"  of  the  Barlincourt  epileptic,  who  was,  by 
the  way,  incapable  of  writing  a  word  or  even  of  articu- 
lating a  sentence.  Since  the  epileptic's  cure,  Milot 
had  acted  as  his  impressario;  and  the  two  men,  being 
treated  continually  by  the  idlers  whom  the  trains 
brought  in  coachfuls  to  Barlincourt,  were  never  sober. 

Among  the  general  public,  no  one  troubled  about 
all  these  controversies.  They  saw  but  one  thing  :  sick 
people  had  been  suddenly  healed;  and  if  all  the  doctors 
were  trying  to  deny  it,  that  was  only  because  they 
themselves  were  unable  to  do  likewise.  In  the  cinemas, 
when  the  silhouette  of  the  saint  appeared  on  the 
screen,  the  whole  theatre  applauded.  The  ecclesias- 
tical authorities  were  becoming  anxious  about  this 
growing  popularity,  for  it  augured  a  dangerous  excite- 
ment, as  soon  as  the  saint  should  begin  to  preach 
his  doctrine. 

Already  the  Osservatore  Romano,  the  mouthpiece 
of  the  Holy  See,  had  skilfully  denied  that  a  Council 
was  to  be  assembled  with  instructions  to  inquire 
into  the  great  deeds  of  Magloire  Dubourg  and  to 
prepare  for  his  canonisation.  The  pontifical  organ 
showered  praises  on  the  illustrious  traveller,  and  simply 
wound  up  by  reminding  its  readers  that  article  2101 
of  Canon  Law  specified  that  a  cause  for  canonisation 
could  only  be  introduced  fifty  years  after  the  death 
of  the  servant  of  God. 

"La  Croix,"  yet  more  circumspect,  contented  itself 
with  an  ambiguous  note  stating  that  the  town  of  Dol 
would  celebrate  on  the  24th  October  the  feast  of  St. 
Magloire,  who  preached  the  Gospel  in  the  fifth  century. 
It  was  a  roundabout  method  of  pointing  out  that  in 
the  Calendar  of  Saints  the  place  was  already  filled. 
The  clerical  organ  employed  the  most  unexpected 
metaphors  in  referring  to  Magloire  Dubourg,  desiring 
to  avoid  calling  him  curtly  monsieur,  but  still  less 
willing  to  call  him  saint.  The  other  newspapers  gene- 
rally commented  sharply  on  this  singular  attitude,  and 
M.   Frangois  Pubourg    had  induced  the  Fratigais  to 

H 


no  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

piint  a  paragraph  in  which  the  acts  of  the  holy  Abbe 
of  Dol  and  those  of  the  Evangehst  were  placed  side  by 
side.  The  comparison  was  not  to  the  advantage  of  the 
Breton  hermit. 

The  novelist,  since  the  miracles  had  taken  place, 
was  no  longer  the  same  man.  He  overflowed  with 
pride;  his  photograph  had  appeared  everjAwhere,  and 
there  was  not  a  soul  in  France  who  had  not  heard  of 
the  villa  of  Barlincourt.  Everything,  moreover,  had 
combined  to  turn  his  head  :  the  urgency  of  the  papers, 
who  were  ordering  stories  from  him  at  double  rates, 
the  respect  of  his  colleagues,  the  curiosity  of  the  Barlin- 
court people,  who  now  stood  stUl  to  watch  him  pass, 
and  the  huge  correspondence  that  reached  him.  At 
last,  indeed,  he  tasted  fame. 

The  King's  Domain  was  constantly  full  of  guests. 
People  were  proud  to  be  invited  to  the  saint's  house. 
The  Aubernons  had  become  more  constant  visitors 
than  ever,  and  M.  Dubourg,  who  had  at  one  time  waited 
■with  some  impatience  for  the  manufacturer  to  ask  him 
to  give  Yvonne's  hand  to  his  son,  now  made  not  the 
slightest  advance.     He  was  biding  his  time. 

Upset  by  these  occurrences  the  little  town  could 
not  recover  its  balance.  At  the  factory,  the  workmen 
took  a  day  off  on  any  trifling  excuse;  the  youngsters 
played  truant  from  school,  the  housewives  chattered 
continually  instead  of  attending  to  their  duties,  and 
discussions  even  went  on  in  the  fields,  while  the  horses 
neighed  with  impatience.  Never  had  the  country 
roads  seen  so  many  people.  The  Mayor  lay  awake  at 
night,  fearful  <?i  fresh  disturbances,  but  hoping  for  new 
miracles;  and,  vanity  having  vanquished  fear,  he  had 
on  his  o\\Ti  initiative  asked  the  Northern  Railway 
Company  to  run  excursion  trains. 

Several  times  the  police  had  been  obliged  to 
intervene  and  clear  the  King's  Domain,  where  the 
mob,  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse  ot  the  saint,  invaded 
the  park ;  and  on  Sundays,  the  days  of  gieater 
crowds,   the   Dubourgs    lived    in    a    state    of    siege. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  iii 

flattered  and  anxious  at  the  same  time.  They  got 
news  of  the  Evangelist  from  M.  Van  den  Kris,  who 
often  went  over  to  Source  Josephine.  It  was  known, 
too,  that  Magloire  Dubourg  had  received  a  visit  from 
an  emissary  of  the  Archbishop,  with  whom  he  had 
remained  behind  locked  doors  for  two  whole  afternoons. 

This  priest  had  questioned  him  closely  on  points  of 
doctrine,  apparently  following  out  an  interrogatory 
prepared  beforehand.  From  the  first  he  had  been 
astonished  that  the  missionaries,  among  whom  the 
Evangelist  had  lived  for  so  many  years,  had  never 
been  alarmed  by  his  dangerous  beliefs. 

"We  worshipped  God  and  we  loved  mankind," 
Saint  Magloire  had  replied,  "and  our  discussions  went 
no  further  than  that." 

The  ideas  of  this  visitor  from  Africa,  which  at  first 
made  him  smile,  had  soon  disturbed  him. 

The  second  day  he  listened  to  the  saint  without 
discussion,  quivering,  vanquished.  After  that  he  was 
not  seen  again.  .  .  .  Without  warning,  or  explana- 
tion, he  failed  to  return. 

Two  days  later,  another  ecclesiastic  presented  him- 
self, a  fat  Monsignor,  with  haughty  manners,  who 
spoke  with  a  strong  Roman  accent.  Upon  this  man 
the  power  of  the  Evangelist  had  no  effect;  he  never 
looked  the  saint  in  the  face  and  hardly  listened  to  him, 
preoccupied  with  the  answer  he  was  going  to  make. 
It  was  a  sophistical  discussion,  which  Magloire  Dubourg 
was  often  unable  to  understand.  With  bowed  head, 
his  plump  hands  slipped  into  his  sash,  the  Monsignor 
replied  to  everything  by  texts,  decisions  of 
Councils  and  quotations  from  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church. 

"No,"  he  said  in  a  mellifluous  voice,  "these 
ideas  are  senseless.  .  .  .  They  would  make  you 
ridiculous  and  would  do  harm  to  religion.  ...  A 
Christian  of  your  standing  cannot  defend  the  doctrine 
of  the  Pharisees." 

When  the  old  man  cried  his  faith  aloud,  seeking  to 


112  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

convince  him,  he  internipted  him  at  once,  sawing  the 
air  \vith  his  short  arms. 

"Please  do  not  let  us  dispute  about  it,"  he  lisped. 
"The  spirit  of  investigation  is  an  impious  spirit.  The 
dogma  is  there  :  Carpocrates  and  Basilides  were  de- 
clared heretics  for  having  upheld  the  same  theories. 
.    .    .    You  see  you  have  discovered  nothing  new." 

Then,  with  a  smile  he  added  in  a  tone  of  forbearance : 

"Believe  me,  you  must  give  it  up." 

Magloire  Dubourg,  however,  refused  to  relinquish 
the  struggle,  and  his  thrusts  never  failed  in  their  effect 
upon  the  prelate.  At  last  the  latter  grew  irritable, 
and,  without  meaning  to  do  so,  lent  himself  to  contro- 
versy. 

"Your  suppositions  have  no  foundation,"  he  said 
angrily.  "It  is  heresy  at  every  step.  Thus,  if  you 
admit  this  perpetual  reincarnation,  when  will  the  souls 
of  men  be  judged?" 

"At  the  Last  Judgment,  the  only  one  of  which 
Jesus  spoke." 

The  Monsignor  eluded  him  : 

"Pardon  me,  you  must  know  that  dogma  accepts 
two  judgments :  a  special  Judgment,  immediately 
after  death,  and  the  universal  Judgment,  which  will 
be  but  the  solemn  promulgation  of  the  earlier  .  .  . 
I  will  quote  the  two  meditations  of  St.  Ignatius  in  his 
Exercises  and.    ..." 

Now  came  the  turn  of  Magloire  to  interrupt. 

"You  know  too  much,  Monsignor,"  he  said  in  his 
veiled  voice.  "He  who  does  not  conceive  the  King- 
dom of  God  like  a  little  child  shall  not  enter  into  it." 

The  face  of  the  Italian  twitched  angrily. 

"And  I,"  he  said  furiously,  "I  answer  you:  "Woe 
to  that  man  by  whom  the  offence  cometh.  .  .  ." 
By  what  right  do  you  pretend  to  be  a  Catholic,  since 
you  rebel  against  the  essential  principles  of  religion? 
By  what  right  do  you  sift  all  the  sacred  writings,  the 
decisions  of  twenty  Councils,  in  the  net  of  your  judg- 
ment?    The  only  true  Church  is  the  codified,  reasoned 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  113 

Church,  not  the  pure  doctrine  of  Christ  where  every- 
thing  consists    of   symbols   unfathomable    for   simple 

minds I   admire   you,    sir,    and  yet    I  pity 

you,  for  in  order  to  wreck  your  sublime  qualities  the 
spirit  of  evil  has  instilled  doubt  and  curiosity  into  you. 
You  have  forgotten  the  great  motto  which  should  guide 
us  aU  :    'Outside  the  Church,  no  salvation.'" 

The  saint,  with  set  countenance,  remained  impassive, 
and  suddenly  the  prelate  felt  anxious.  He  regretted 
that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  away.  A 
rupture  with  Magloire  Dubourg  would  re-echo  round 
the  world,  and  it  was  precisely  to  avoid  any  such 
scandal  that  he  had  come.  H«  changed  his  tone 
abruptly  and  bowed  his  head  before  the  old  man  with 
a  respect  which  was  not  altogether  feigned. 

"Sooner  or  later  you  will  recant  these  repre- 
hensible errors,"  he  said;  "but  promise  me,  promise 
the  ecclesiastical  authorities  whom  I  represent,  that 
you  will  provoke  no  scandal,  that  you  will  attempt 
nothing  which  might  be  of  service  to  the  enemies  of 
the  Church." 

The  saint  looked  at  him,  trying  to  read  the  truth 
in  his  insincere  eyes.     Then  he  replied  : 

"I  promise  you  that  I  will  always  fight  against 
the  enemies  of  God." 

As  he  went  out,  the  Italian  talked  for  a  moment 
with  the  Superior  of  the  establishment  and  a  young 
priest  of  the  Catholic  Institute,  who  walked  with  him 
to  his  motor-car. 

"WTtiat  a  pity,"  he  murmured,  "to  have  so 
great  a  heart  and  so  pernicious  an  intellect !  " 

And  he  entered  his  car  with  a  discreet  blessing,  which 
the  director  and  the  young  priest  received  with  heads 
bowed  religiously,  but  with  their  minds  on  other 
things,  for  they  had  been  so  often  blessed. 

This  interview  had  at  once  become  known  through- 
out the  whole  establishment,  and  the  disturbance 
caused  by  the  saint's  arrival  only  increased. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Colonials,  who  already 


114  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

knew  him,  the  other  boarders  felt  themselves  em- 
barrassed in  the  presence  of  Magloire  Dubourg.  They 
were  caught  between  the  fascination  which  he  exer- 
cised over  everyone,  and  an  inexplicable  fear.  As  soon 
as  anyone  ventured  to  disagree  with  him,  the  Evan- 
gelist adopted  an  authoritative  tone  which  broke  down 
all  resistance.  He  would  have  liked  to  force  his  beliefs, 
his  sentiments,  even  his  unparalleled  goodness,  on 
everyone  alike.  The  least  injustice  shocked  him. 
Thus,  on  the  first  day,  he  had  been  annoyed  to  see 
that  the  servants  did  not  take  their  meals  at  the 
common  table. 

"Ought  we  not  to  set  an  example  of  simplicity?" 
he  had  asked  the  Superior.  "Why  two  tables?  We 
must  not  despise  those  who  serve  us;  if  they  perform 
degrading  tasks  we  degrade  ourselves  still  more  by 
ordering  them  to  do  so." 

This  vmnecessary  tirade  made  no  change  in  the 
customs  of  the  house,  but  all  the  boarders  were 
annoyed  by  it,  and  the  servants  even  more  so. 

"Oh,  that's  a  bit  too  much  of  a  good  thing,"  ex- 
claimed the  gardener,  who  always  felt  that  he  was 
being  spied  on  from  the  windows  as  he  lazily  raked 
the  paths.  "They  might  at  least  let  us  eat  our  dinner 
in  peace  ! " 

In  the  midst  of  the  Fathers,  Magloire  led  a  separate 
existence.  Since  all  ostentation  was  detestable  to  him, 
he  even  hid  himself  at  times  of  prayer,  and  often  missed 
a  service  while  he  meditated  in  the  leafy  garden,  before 
the  marble  Neptune  with  the  ivy-bound  limbs. 

Assisted  by  Father  Labry,  he  had  constructed  a  bee- 
hive at  the  end  of  the  kitchen -garden,  and  everyone 
was  surprised  to  see  him  playing  with  the  bees,  making 
them  roU  inertly  in  his  hands,  without  ever  being  stung. 
Only  the  gardener  was  not  astonished,  for  he  could  do 
as  much  himself;  only,  where  he  came  from  nobody 
wondered  at  it. 

No  one,  then,  dared  to  resist  the  Saint.  However, 
on  the  day  of  the  visit  of  the  Monsignor,  the  young 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  115 

priest  from  the  Catholic  Institute,  made  irritable  by 
ill-health,  refused  to  go  and  apologise  to  the  porter 
whom  he  had  just  treated  discourteously.  The  eyes 
of  the  EvangeUst  blazed. 

"I  command  you  in  the  name  of  holy  obedience,', 
he  cried.  Unconsciously,  he  had  used  the  very  words 
which  Francis  of  Assisi  spoke  to  his  saintly  com- 
panions. As  he  had  risen,  the  sleeping  bees  in  the 
folds  of  his  mantle  flew  away  with  a  pizzicato  and 
buzzed  around  him;  a  ray  of  simlight  silvered  his  white 
locks,  the  wounds  in  his  hands  showed  their  two  stig- 
mata, and  the  vanquished  priest  suddenly  thought 
that  he  beheld  the  preacher  of  the  birds  commanding 
brother  Masseo,  in  the  gardens  of  Spoleto.  .  .  . 
Then  he  bowed  his  head,  and  submissive,  moved 
away.    .    .    . 

M.  Van  den  Kris  came  that  morning  at  a  smart  pace 
up  the  Avenue  Ducis,  which  leads  to  Source  Josephine, 
and  to  urge  himself  along  he  whistled  the  refrain  of  the 
"Sidi  Brahim,"  for  martial  music,  limited  strictly  to 
the  regimental  drum  and  fife,  was  the  only  sort  that  he 
approved  of. 

Coming  along  in  the  tram  he  had  read  all  the  papers 
that  referred  to  the  rebellion  on  the  Ivory  Coast,  which 
was  assuming  the  proportions  of  a  genuine  Holy  War; 
and  as  he  walked  up  the  Avenue,  with  his  straw  hat  in 
his  hand,  he  imagined  himself  commanding  a  punitive 
column  under  orders  to  relieve  Singrobo.  He  always 
dreamed  these  daring  dreams  when  he  was  out  walking. 
Whether  his  pace  was  slow  or  rapid  depended  on  the 
nature  of  his  thoughts.  If  he  were  holding  a  palaver 
at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  or  if  he  were  keepmg  watch 
over  a  sleeping  camp,  he  tripped  along  quite  softly 
with  the  air  of  a  gentleman  at  large  who  was  out  for  a 
stroll;  then  suddenly  he  might  be  seen  hastening  his 
steps,  setting  off  at  full  speed.  That  was  because  his 
detachment  had  just  fallen  into  an  ambush,  or  because 
the  charge  was  being  sounded  under  the  palms.     He 


ii6  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

must  have  charged  a  number  of  times  since  he  ahghted 
from  the  tram,  for  he  was  perspiring  profusely  as  he 
entered  the  door  of  the  House  of  Retreat.  When  he 
came  into  the  garden  he  put  away  his  dream,  as  one 
closes  a  book,  with  a  leaf  turned  down. 

"I  have  brought  you  the  Paris  papers,"  said  he 
to  the  missionaries;  "things  are  getting  worse  in 
Africa." 

"Yes,  we  saw  that,"  muttered  Father  Labry,  who 
had  as  great  a  love  for  the  negroes  as  Saint  Magloire. 
"It  is  a  nice  business.    .    .    ." 

"Come,  the  Senegalese  are  in  the  right,"  said 
another,  who  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  rose- 
coloured  pool.     "The  whites  out  there  are  like  locusts." 

"Poor  devils,"  continued  Father  Labry,  .  .  . 
"I  ought  not  to  have  left.  One  might  perhaps  have 
been  able  to  do  something.  .  .  .  They'll  send  de- 
tachments, of  course,  kill  still  more  men,  burn  some 
villages,  but  we  shan't  be  any  better  off  at  the  end  of 
it.  .  .  .  They  wiU  only  detest  us  a  little  more,  that's 
all.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  sorry  for  the  Fathers  who  will 
be  sent  out  there  now." 

"Hallo,"  another  missionary,  a  tall  bearded  youth 
with  a  limp,  said  maliciously,  "here  is  Grandpapa 
defending  his  savages  again." 

"Savages!"  flared  up  the  old  Father,  "Less  so 
than  we  are.  .  .  ,  Now  you  just  compare  the  wine- 
merchants  here  with  those  out  there.    .    ,    ." 

The  whole  group  began  to  laugh  uproariously. 

"Ah,  he  confesses  that  he  goes  to  the  cafe.  .  .  . 
We  shall  have  them  bringing  him  home  screwed.    ,    ." 

"Why,  certainly,  I  go  and  chat  there,  and  I  drink 
a  little;  it's  my  way  of  making  conversions.  Well, 
suppose  a  publican  here  were  never  at  his  counter 
and  left  his  customers  to  help  themselves,  do  you 
think  many  of  them  would  pay?  Not  one,  I  am  cer- 
tain. I  know  them,  the  scamps.  And  the  last  of  them 
would  most  likely  empty  the  till.  ,  .  ,  Whereas  in 
Baoule  I  never  saw  anyone  in  charge  of  the  huts  where 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  117 

they  sell  samba.  The  man  is  out  harvesting  in  the 
palm-groves,  and  when  the  porters  have  had  a  good 
drink,  everyone  of  them  puts  what  he  owes  into  the 
bag  that  hangs  at  the  door.  And  it  is  people  like  that 
whom  you  want  to  civilise  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 
.    .    .    But  they  are  worth  more  than  you.    .    .    ." 

M.  Van  den  Kris,  who  despised  negroes,  kept  his 
lips  tightly  closed.  Neither  did  Magloire  Dubourg 
take  part  in  the  discussion.  He  seemed  more  care- 
worn than  usual.  Seated  apart  from  the  others,  he  was 
looking  at  the  papers.  They  were  less  concerned 
with  his  doings  this  morning;  the  negro  revolt  filled 
all  the  front  pages  and  a  stop-press  column  as  well. 

The  disturbances  had  begun  in  the  Kong  country, 
usually  one  of  the  most  peaceful  in  the  Upper  Ivory 
Coast.  For  some  months  an  alarming  agitation  had 
been  noticed  along  the  edge  of  the  Comoe,  that  mys- 
terious river  which  winds  through  the  Great  Forest 
and  whose  banks  are  still  unexplored.  The  natives 
complained  of  having  been  raided  repeatedly  without 
the  troops  at  the  stations  having  done  anything  to 
protect  them,  and,  since  that  time,  they  had  become 
discouraged  and  had  not  started  to  work  again.  When 
the  assistant  officials  for  native  affairs  appeared  at  the 
villages  to  collect  the  taxes,  they  were  received  with 
a  hail  of  stones. 

Troops  were  then  sent  with  orders  not  so  much  to 
punish  the  rebels  as  to  frighten  them,  but,  instead 
of  pacifying  the  district,  they  themselves,  on  the 
contrary,  let  loose  rebellion.  Indeed,  since  the  com- 
manding officers  had  not  sufficient  forces  at  their 
disposal,  they  had,  on  the  way  through,  recruited 
adherents,  chosen  from  among  the  most  warlike  tribes 
— triple-scarred  bambaras  and  baoules  with  long  flint- 
locks— with  the  result  that  the  plundered  villages 
thought  the  same  bands  who  had  already  raided  them 
were  retiuning,  but  this  time  under  orders  of  the  white 
men. 

At  this  injustice,  the  negroes  rose  in  revolt.     In  a 


ii8  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

few  days  the  whole  Kong  country  was  in  rebellion. 
In  proportion  as  the  troops  advanced,  the  insurrection, 
mysteriously  organised,  grew  in  front  of  them.  Losses 
soon  became  so  heavy  that  they  were  obliged  to  fall 
back  on  the  stations.  This  retreat  emboldened  the 
negroes;  those  who  were  still  hesitating  joined  the 
movement,  and  the  Government  was  at  last  obliged 
to  acknowledge  the  facts  :  the  whole  colony  was  in 
revolt,  from  the  Gulf  of  Guinea  to  the  Sudan. 

It  was  the  most  serious  rebellion  tlie  colony  had  ever 
experienced.  The  whole  population  had  taken  arms, 
without  any  distinction  of  races,  from  the  fetish- 
worshipping  Mandingues  to  the  Mohammedan  Peuhls; 
the  native  auxiliary  forces  were  deserting  the  French 
troops  and  returning  to  their  own  tribes,  with  rifles 
and  cartridges;  the  authorities  no  longer  dared  to 
send  detachments  into  the  equatorial  forest,  since  all 
the  villages  in  the  clearings  had  risen;  and  the  French 
soldiers  were  being  attacked  up  to  the  very  gates  of 
Bingerville. 

In  order  to  impress  on  their  readers  the  gravity  of 
this  revolt,  the  newspapers  published  a  map  of  France 
opposite  to  one  of  the  rebellious  districts,  from  Ashanti 
to  the  Niger  :  the  two  were  precisely  the  same  size. 
To  put  down  the  revolt,  the  French  troops  were  now 
obliged  to  march  for  whole  months  together,  coming 
from  Guinea  or  Senegal,  or  else,  disemarking  at  Grand- 
Bassam,  to  cross  two  hundred  miles  of  virgin  forest; 
that  huge  moist  forest,  full  of  shadows,  whose  eternally 
green  foliage  only  dies  as  it  reaches  the  coast  lagoons. 

Most  of  the  newspapers  spoke  of  Saint  Magloire  in 
connection  with  the  negro  rebellion  and  regretted 
that  they  were  unable  to  find  out  his  views,  for  he 
was  better  acquainted  than  anyone  else  with  the 
tribes  which  had  revolted.  The  Cri  Public  went  still 
further  : 

"People  will  not  fail  to  see  a  connection,"  it  said, 
"between  this  sudden  insurrection,  which  has  obvi- 
ously been  prepared  beforehand,  and  the  unexpected 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  119 

return  of  Magloire  Dubourg  to  France.  Some  may 
even  wonder  whether  the  famous  traveller,  knowing 
what  was  about  to  happen,  has  not  come  here  as 
ambassador  for  the  negroes,  to  negotiate  with  the 
French  Government." 

Father  Labry,  to  whom  the  saint  showed  this  pas- 
sage, began  to  laugh  and  pull  his  beard. 

"That's  a  good  joke,"  he  exclaimed.  "Here  you 
are,  a  full-blown  Ambassador  for  the  negroes.    ..." 

Paris  was  excited.  So  long  as  the  disturbances  in 
Africa  had  been  limited  to  village  insurrections,  the 
public  had  taken  little  heed  of  them.  People  carelessly 
read  the  first  casualty  lists,  almost  all  from  the  Sene- 
galese Rifles :  Diara,  Foutabe,  Ibrahim  N'Daye, 
Moussa :   savages,  in  fact.    .    .    . 

Men  did  not  worry,  knowing  that  they  would  not 
be  called  up  for  this  war.  Women  did  not  even  look 
at  the  dispatches;  they  read  nothing  but  the  articles 
of  the  saint.  It  was  all  too  far  away,  the  danger  could 
never  cross  the  seas.    .    .    . 

But,  after  the  morning  news,  came  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feehng.  Each  paper  printed  across  two 
columns  a  little  paragraph  in  itahcs,  under  the  head- 
line "Communique,"  and  that  word  alone  sufficed  to 
make  the  public  realise  the  situation.  They  remem- 
bered. .  .  .  "Again!"  They  seemed  to  scent 
Death  .  .  .  they  thought  of  long-drawn-out  agonies 
in  the  underbrush  where  wild  beasts  prowled;  of  the 
boys  who  would  leave  home  and  never  return.  War  : 
they  knew  what  that  meant,  since  1914.    .    .    . 

In  big  headlines,  the  Frangais  summed  up  the 
opinion  of  the  working  classes.  "Not  a  man  !  Not  a 
penny ! "  But  the  leading  papers  demanded  the 
sternest  repression  of  the  revolt.  Le  Jour,  which 
liked  laconic  formulas  and  ideas  put  into  figures  of 
speech,  had  published  under  the  title  of  "The  Black 
Granary  "  a  sort  of  diagram  in  which  was  shown  a  pile 
of  bales  of  various  sizes  :  coffee,  cereals,  spices,  sugar. 


120  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

rice;  and  Le  Jour  reckoned  that,  rather  than  deprive 
herself  of  all  these  supplies,  generous  France  would 
surely  sacrifice  a  few  more  soldiers.  The  same  paper 
pointed  out  elsewhere  that  it  was  a  question  of  special 
troops,  professional  soldiers,  legionaries,  natives,  a 
few  battalions  of  colonials  made  up  of  hot-heads;  and 
that,  after  all,  the  only  use  for  such  soldiers  as  these 
was  to  make  war  and,  if  necessary,  to  die  on  the  field. 
Several  retired  Governors,  the  wife  of  an  explorer,  and 
two  Colonial  generals  had  been  interviewed,  and  all 
expressed  the  view  that  reprisals  were  necessary. 
True,  there  was  still  the  opinion  of  the  soldiers  to  be 
considered,  but  no  one  thought  of  that.  Still  less  of 
the  opinion  of  the  negroes. 

On  the  boulevards,  where  the  newspapers  posted  up 
their  latest  telegrams,  the  crowds  hung  about,  restless 
and  noisy,  but,  with  the  exception  of  a  band  of 
students,  who  were  quickly  dispersed  by  the  police, 
there  had  been  no  breach  of  the  peace. 

In  the  afternoon,  outside  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
the  few  idlers  who  were  watching  at  the  railings  were 
all  detectives.  People  walked  by,  indifferent.  But  in 
the  interior  of  the  Palace,  in  the  corridors,  in  the  Salle 
des  Pas  Perdus,  in  the  refreshment  room,  there  was 
the  same  hubbub  that  may  be  heard  on  the  day  of  a 
great  debate.  Those  who  wanted  to  find  peace  had 
to  seek  it  in  the  Chamber  itself. 

A  few  assiduous  old  deputies,  of  whom  nothing 
could  be  seen  from  the  galleries  but  their  bald  and 
shining  heads,  were  carrying  on  their  correspondence, 
deaf  to  everything  around  them.  Some  were  reading. 
Others  were  chatting  in  small  groups. 

All  alone  on  the  Government  bench  sat  a  fat  man, 
who  was  wagging  his  head  and  playing  mechanically 
with  a  paper  knife.  From  time  to  time,  a  voice  on 
the  rostrum  interrupted  its  mutterings  to  say : 
"Passf.d,"  then  went  on  with  its  reading.  No  one 
could  have  told  what  subject  was  under  discussion. 

Deputies  came  and  went.     Ushers,  who  looked  like 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  121 

beadles  with  their  silver  chains,  brought  in  news  from 
the  outside.  A  famous  politician  came  in  with  a  rush, 
as  a  singer  comes  to  look  at  the  house  before  the  cur- 
tain goes  up;  he  shook  hands  with  a  few  people  and 
went  out  again  after  a  look  at  the  galleries.  The  old 
men  went  on  writing.  It  was  the  atmosphere  of  a 
business  agency,  of  a  college  and  an  Assize  Court  com- 
bined. 

The  pubHc  galleries  were  already  crowded  when  the 
Chamber  began  to  fill  up.  The  deputies  arrived  in 
twos  and  threes  and  went  to  their  seats.  Someone 
was  then  seen  to  cross  the  semicircle,  with  a  dossier 
under  his  arm,  and  run  lightly  up  the  steps  of  the 
tribune.  There  arose  a  burst  of  laughter  from  all  the 
benches.     On  several  sides  came  cries  of : 

"  Bouicard  !     Bravo,  Bouicard  !    .    .    . " 

The  ushers,  too,  had  pricked  up  their  ears  and 
looked  merrily  at  the  orator.  This  Bouicard,  who  had 
no  special  claim  to  celebrity,  was  one  of  the  butts  of 
the  Palais  Bourbon,  and  no  matter  how  grave  the 
discussion,  he  had  only  to  open  his  lips  for  the  House 
to  relax.  Though  he  was  considered  stupid,  he  was 
well  liked. 

The  burlesque  adventures  and  absurd  sajdngs 
attributed  to  him  by  the  newspapers,  far  from  injuring 
him,  had  ended  by  making  his  reputation.  He  was 
loyal  to  every  Government  in  turn  as  long  as  it  re- 
tained its  power,  and  he  never  voted  except  with  the 
majority.  On  this  occasion,  also,  he  was  to  speak  by 
order,  simply  to  fill  the  rostrum  till  the  arrival  of  the 
Ministers. 

Amid  the  buzz,  he  could  be  heard  beginning  his 
speech.  It  was  his  everlasting  project  for  the  Medi- 
terranean-Atlantic Canal.  Some  of  the  deputies, 
already  irritable,  grew  angry. 

"Get  on!  get  on!"  they  shouted.  "The  thing  is 
a  farce.    ..." 

Then,  on  a  sudden,  came  silence.  A  group  of 
deputies  swept  in,  like  a  black  flood,  and  scattered 


122  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

through  the  gangways.  The  Ministerial  benches  fiJled 
up  in  a  trice.  The  atmosphere  had  changed  com- 
pletely. 

A  long  ovation  rose  from  the  hall :  four  hundred 
deputies,  standing,  welcomed  the  President  of  the 
Council,  who  had  just  arrived.  He  could  be  seen 
walking  with  a  slight  stoop,  and  a  somewhat  surly 
expression.  He  acknowledged  the  welcome  with  a 
nod  and  went  to  his  seat,  shaking  the  hands  out- 
stretched to  him. 

When  order  was  restored,  the  deputy  who  was  to 
put  a  question  to  the  Government,  and  had  come  in 
just  before  to  gauge  the  temper  of  the  House, 
mounted  the  rostrum. 

"He  is  upset,"  said  the  habitues. 

"Gentlemen  ...  At  this  moment,  when  in  dis- 
tant lands  for  which  we  have  already  paid  with  our 
blood,  young  French  lives  are  to  be  offered  up    .    .    ." 

He  spoke  in  a  warm,  supple  voice  that  caressed  the 
words,  a  voice  which  was  more  seductive  than  con- 
vincing.    The  public  whispered  its  admiration. 

The  periods  succeeded  each  other,  moving  and 
empty,  with  "Hear,  hears"  at  the  end.  Fine 
imagery  : 

"Little  Turcos  lying  in  the  great  plains,  their 
cold  cheeks  fondled  by  the  wind  that  blows  from 
France.  .  .  .  We  have  taught  the  peoples,  who 
yesterday  were  still  in  slavery,  that  all  chains  fall  away 
where ,  our  armies  have  passed.  ...  If  the  olive 
branch  has  failed  in  its  message  to  the  Sudanese 
desert,  whither  we  had  carried  it  with  such  infinite 
pains,  it  is  not  the  Republic  who  can  be 
blamed.    ..." 

The  Right  and  the  Centre  applauded  unceasingly. 
Then  suddenly  the  speaker  changed  his  method,  as  a 
boxer  changes  his  guard.     His  voice  trembled. 

"That  admirable  working  class,  which  came  back, 
bled  white,  with  empty  hands,  from  five  years  of 
war.    ..." 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  123 

Then,  forgetting  old  grudges,  the  Left  in  its  turn 
applauded  frantically.  Little  by  little,  the  orator 
unmasked  his  batteries.  Undoubtedly  it  would  be 
necessary  to  intervene;  France  could  not  without 
shame  abandon  one  acre  of  her  Colonial  Empire.  But 
was  this  Government,  whom  the  Allies  of  yesterday 
aheady  regarded  with  distrust,  quite  sure  that  it  could 
avoid  giving  offence,  if  it  attempted  an  operation 
which  was  indeed  necessary,  but  perhaps  required 
more  delicate  handling? 

And  then — the  attack. 

"I  know — and  there  are  some  of  us  in  this 
assembly  who  are  aheady  alarmed  thereat — that  the 
Government  has  vaster  ambitions,  other  ends  in  view 
than  the  pacification  of  the  rebellious  regions;  and  I 
ask  myself,  with  a  shudder,  whether  a  country  which 
has  left  fifteen  hundred  thousand  dead    ..." 

The  murmiu-  became  a  roar.  The  whole  Chamber 
sprang  to  its  feet,  applause  and  hisses  mingled;  five 
hundred  men  stared  aghast  at  Minister  and  Orator. 

In  the  yellow  light  which  fell  from  the  cupola  the 
great  mass  of  men  could  be  seen  whirling  about,  and 
bodies  with  waving  arms  seemed  to  shout  words  that 
were  lost  in  the  tumult. 

All  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  President  of  the 
Council,  who  had  risen. 

"Speech,"  they  called. 

He  seemed  to  hesitate.  Then  he  mounted  the  ros- 
trum. Not  a  note  in  his  hand  :  all  eyes  noticed  that 
fact.  And  at  once,  without  preparation  or  beating 
about  the  bush,  he  replied. 

As  far  as  the  repression  of  disturbances  was  con- 
cerned, all  discussion  was  superfluous;  it  was  a 
necessity.  A  solitary  voice  from  the  socialist  benches 
cried  out  "No,"  but  it  was  drowned  at  once  by  hisses. 

There  remained  only  the  question  of  intervention  by 
neighbouring  Powers.  France  had  secured  complete 
liberty  of  action  in  Liberia.  By  way  of  compensation 
she  was  to  leave  England  a  free  hand  to  carry  on  her 


124  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

police  operations  in  Ethiopia,  and  was  to  give  carte 
blanche  to  the  United  States  if  they  should  think  fit 
to  "keep  a  close  watch"  on  the  internal  affairs  of 
Mexico. 

The  majority,  reconquered,  applauded  to  the  echo, 
but  some  exclamations  were  mingled  with  the  cheers. 
Scraps  of  phrases  could  be  heard:  "Greater  France. 
...  A  himian  reservoir.  .  .  .  Unexploited 
wealth.  .  .  ."  Then  the  voice  was  drowned  in 
uproar.  The  Socialists  descended,  vociferating,  from 
their  benches. 

"  Not  a  man  ! "  they  cried. 

From  the  Right,  deputies  rushed  towards  them, 
shaking  their  fists  in  their  opponents'  faces,  regardless 
of  the  ushers  who  threw  themselves  into  the  fray. 
Cries  of  "Long  live  France  !"  and  "Down  with  War  !" 
were  flung  back  and  forth.  A  Communist,  gesticu- 
lating at  the  foot  of  the  rostrum,  apostrophised  the 
President,  his  clamouring  swamped  by  the  racket. 

"Shameful  haggling!"  he  yelled,  with  crimson 
cheeks. 

"So  that's  your  Republic!"  bawled  a  little  man 
with  long  hair  on  the  Right. 

The  President,  leaning  forward,  rapped  out  calls  to 
order,  which  no  one  heard,  and  vainly  rang  his  bell. 
The  seething  mass  continued  to  rave. 

The  President  of  the  Council,  however,  did  not  leave 
the  rostrum,  and  when  the  noise  subsided  he  took  up 
his  speech  again  at  the  same  point  and  the  same  word. 
There  was  silence;  the  fever  had  subsided,  the  voices 
were  exhausted. 

Besides,  they  wanted  information.  A  statement  of 
the  plan  of  campaign  followed.  Absolute  stillness 
now  reigned  while  the  President  of  the  Council  was 
speaking;  the  contrast,  after  the  storm,  was  almost 
tragic.  The  crowd  was  panting :  all  glances,  all 
thoughts  converged  on  him,  drinking  in  his  words.  A 
thousand  invisible  rays  must  have  pierced  him. 

"Who,     then,     would     dare     to     leave     unburied 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  125 

those  who  died  on  the  Upper  Coast?  Who  would 
leave  unavenged  the  defenders  of  Seguela?  Our 
Duty    ..." 

At  this  moment,  unexpected  as  a  thunder-clap,  a 
deep  voice  rang  out  from  the  galleries  : 

"SHence!" 

The  Minister,  startled,  raised  his  head,  his  mouth 
open,  and  very  pale. 

"I  command  you  to  be  silent.    ..." 

With  one  accord  the  astounded  deputies  whipped 
round.  All  eyes  sought  the  man  who  had  spoken. 
People  hustled  each  other  in  the  galleries,  leaning  over 
to  get  a  better  view.  The  President  must  have 
shouted  something,  for  the  ushers  came  up  quickly. 
There  was  a  wild  uproar.    .    .    . 

"It  is  never  the  duty  of  men  to  kill.  To  wipe  out 
blood,  you  are  going  to  spill  blood.  You  hand  over 
slaves  to  predatory  tribes  as  you  would  sell  cattle  to 
a  dealer.    ..." 

All  over  the  Chamber  people  were  shouting. 
Round  the  man  himself,  a  jostling  crowd,  overturned 
benches.    .    .    . 

"What  you  are  bartering  in  this  market-booth  of 
yours  is  the  blood  and  sweat  of  others.  It  is  the 
suffering  of  the  negroes  whom  you  are  loading  with 
chains,  it  is  the  life  of  the  boys  you  are  butchering  to 
pay  for  your  conquests.    .    .    .    Blood,  always  blood  ! " 

Then  they  saw  him.  .  .  .  His  long  outstretched 
arm  cursed  the  assembly.  Everyone  intuitively 
recognised  Magloire  Dubourg.  The  common-place 
photographs  in  the  papers  had  not  given  any  idea  of 
the  bronzed  skin,  the  blazing  eyes,  the  whole  lumi- 
nous visage,  but  everyone  understood  at  once  that  it 
was  he.  A  murmur  rose  from  the  amphitheatre,  where 
all  the  deputies  had  sprung  to  their  feet,  but  no  one 
as  yet  dared  to  interrupt.  A  supernatural  fear  suffo- 
cated them.  Women,  in  the  galleries,  stared  at  him, 
haggard,  their  hands  pressed  to  their  lips.  A  youth 
had  flung  himself  on  the  saint,  but  stopped  in  the  ac* 

I 


126  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

of  touching  him,  and  drew  back  not  daring.  .  .  . 
Father  Labry,  stupefied,  looked  at  his  old  friend  with- 
out moving.  And  Magloire  went  on  speaking,  pouring 
his  anathema,  crying  his  horror  aloud  : 

"You  have  paid  for  your  territories  with  dead 
enough  to  cover  them  to  the  last  acre  with  a  harvest 
of  corpses.  .  .  .  God  gave  you  life  that  you  might 
love,  and  you  talk  of  nothing  but  hate;  He  intended 
you  for  happiness  and  you  have  set  up  misery;  He 
gave  you  a  paradise  on  earth  and  you  fight  over  it 
with  snapping  jaws  like  vicious  dogs  snarling  over  a 
bone.  .  .  .  Shame  on  you,  if  you  spill  the  blood 
of  the  negroes  !  It  is  you  who  are  the  barbarians. 
.  .  .  My  African  savages,  in  centuries  of  war,  could 
not  have  raised  that  pyramid  of  ten  million  corpses 
which  still  spreads  over  Europe  the  testimony  of  its 
putrefaction.    ..." 

The  hostile  murmur  from  below  was  growing  in 
volume.  Each  word  cut  them  like  the  lash  of  a 
riding-whip.  People  were  hooting.  .  .  .  From  the 
galleries,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  now  but  a 
crowd  of  evil  faces  and  clenched  fists.  Threats  rose 
on  all  sides. 

"  Put  him  out !  .  .  .  That's  enough !  .  .  .  the 
man's  mad !    .    .    . " 

Father  Labry  had  seized  Magloire  Dubourg  by  the 
arm  and  was  imploring  him,  with  quivering  lips.  But 
the  saint,  pushing  him  aside,  went  on  speaking,  and 
his  powerful  voice  fought  the  clamour  as  a  boar  shakes 
the  hounds  that  have  seized  it. 

"Not  a  crucifix  on  your  walls!"  thundered  the 
prophetic  voice.  .  .  .  "He  judged  you  from  His 
Cross,  you  prating  hucksters !  .  .  .  How  many 
among  you  will  set  out  for  the  conquest  of  these  coun- 
tries that  you  are  putting  in  chains?  I  swear  to  you, 
you  will  pay  in  tears  for  aU  the  blood  that  will  be 
shed.  .  .  .  The  day  will  come  when  you,  too,  will 
be  weak,  the  day  will  come  when  you,  too,  will  be 
poor,  the  day  will  come  when  you  will  no  longer  be 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  127 

the  boot  that  crushes,  but  the  gasping  thing  that 
moans  beneath  its  weight.  .  .  .  Pray  for  yourselves, 
fine  talkers  without  a  conscience,  to-morrow  will  be 
the  ransom  of  to-day.    .    .    ." 

The  corridors  were  jammed  with  ushers,  deputies, 
idlers,  journalists,  who  with  cries  of  "Where  is  he? 
Where  is  he? "  rushed  up  the  staircase,  to  be  swallowed 
in  the  crowd  above.  In  the  Chamber  the  deputies 
were  massed  hke  a  flock  of  sheep.  Elbow  to  elbow, 
the  close  proximity  was  restoring  their  courage.  They 
were  aU  shouting  at  once  to  drown  his  voice.  Parties 
and  rivakies  had  disappeared :  their  hoarse  throats 
all  bellowed  the  same  insults.  As  the  saint,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  paused  for  breath,  the  President  of  the 
Council  attempted  to  reply.     His  voice  quavered  : 

"I  implore  my  colleagues  to  pay  no  attention  to 
the  rambl    ..." 

Saint  Magloire  stopped  him  again,  imperious  : 

"Be  sUent!" 

And  the  stunned  crowd  obeyed,  white-faced. 

"Do  you  not  feel  that  Death  has  already  hold  of 
you,  ambitious  old  man?  The  last  sarcasm  you  utter 
will  kill  you,  like  the  last  sting  of  a  hornet.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  all  doing,  you  parasites,  in  these  places 
which  you  have  stolen  by  promises.    .    .    ." 

The  door  of  the  gallery  slammed  violently,  and  ten 
men  flung  themselves  in  a  melee  on  the  saint.  They 
could  be  seen  from  below,  and  with  a  spontaneous 
shout  the  Chamber  applauded  them.  It  was  a  cry  of 
triumph,  one  great  laugh  of  relief.  Thank  God  !  they 
were  dragging  him  away.  .  .  .  The  public  galleries 
disgorged  their  occupants  in  a  terrible  din.  The  de- 
puties, too,  sprang  towards  the  door,  but  the  tinkle  of 
a  bell  held  them  back. 

"Gentlemen,"  cried  the  President  theatrically, 
"the  session  will  continue." 

The  French  windows  of  the  Salon  des  Quatre- 
Colonnes  were  open  to  the  garden.     Seated  in  a  red 


I2S  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

ann-chair  with  gilded  arms,  the  President  of  the 
Council,  still  exhausted,  was  thanking  his  friends  with 
feeble  handshakes.  After  leaving  the  rostruni,  he 
had  felt  faint. 

"It  was  so  hot,  was  it  not?"  he  explained, 
embamassed.  "And  then  I  had  been  up  so 
late.    ..." 

"You  are  overworking,  M.  le  President.    ..." 

The  speaker  had  been  among  the  first  to  come  and 
congratulate  him,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment 
shaking  hands  effusively,  silent  and  profoundly  moved. 
In  the  comers,  in  little  animated  groups,  people  were 
talking. 

"They  took  him  back  to  Rueil  directly  the  Police 
had  questioned  him." 

"That  was  the  best  thing  they  could  do." 

"He's  quite  mad." 

"If  they  had  arrested  him  they  would  only  have 
made  people  sympathise  with  him." 

"Do  you  know  this  place,  Source  Josephine?" 

On  being  asked  this  question,  a  deputy  in  a  cassock 
answered  with  a  pained  expression  : 

"Yes,  a  most  respectable  establishment.  The 
poor  people  there  will  be  distressed.  .  .  .  The  best 
thing  for  them  would  be  to  get  rid  of  him  as  quickly 
as  possible." 

Elsewhere,  a  socialist  was  justifying  himself 
desperately  : 

"Certainly  we  are  against  any  Colonial  expedi- 
tion. On  that  subject  we  are  in  absolute  disagreement 
with  the  Government,  but  I  hope  that  no  one  imagines 
we  approve  of  such  a  gross  diatribe  as  that." 

His  opponents  politely  reassured  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,   how  could  you   believe.    ..." 

The  President,  tired  out,  closed  his  eyes.  Round 
about  him,  phrases  were  still  buzzing. 

"Economic  greatness.  .  .  .  Colonial  Empire. 
.    .    .    Insulted  flag." 

And  as  he  fell  asleep,  he  seemed  to  be  driving  them 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  129 

away,  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  as  one  flicks  away 

September  flies. 

•  ••••• 

From  his  carriage,  Saint  Magloire,  driving  along  the 
Seine,  caught  sight  of  a  regiment,  halting  for  rest. 
With  a  hand  that  still  shook,  he  crossed  himself. 

The  soldiers  had  piled  arms  all  along  the  pavement. 
War  kit,  with  helmets.  Passers-by  came  running  up 
to  get  a  better  view  of  them. 

"They  are  Colonials  going  off  to  Africa." 

The  foot-soldiers  had  come  from  the  Fort  of  Vanves 
and  were  to  entrain  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon.  They  might 
have  been  taken  for  a  noisy  school-class  at  recreation 
time.  They  were  romping,  with  resounding  friendly 
smacks,  laughing,  calling  to  each  other.  The  long 
journey  intoxicated  them;  they  already  felt  them- 
selves different  from  the  others  :  matured  by  adven- 
ture. They  looked  at  the  people  with  a  bantering 
air,  a  slight  contempt.  Those  who  had  spent  the  night 
weeping  on  their  straw  mattresses  were  joking  like 
their  pals. 

"Au  revotr,  chickabiddies  !  We  are  off  to  monkey- 
land." 

The  idlers  slipped  into  the  ranks  of  the  soldiers, 
distributing  cigarettes  and  money.  For  that  one  day, 
the  officers  winked  at  everything.  Seated,  with 
swinging  legs,  on  the  parapet,  some  veterans,  sunburnt 
and  bemedalled,  were  emptying  their  cans. 

A  little  apart,  a  beardless  youth,  with  pale  cheeks, 
was  talking  to  a  woman, 

"Mother,  mother!" 

Shyly,  he  held  her  by  the  elbow,  not  daring  to  take 
her  in  his  arms  before  so  many  people.  She  was 
weeping;  stifling  her  sobs  with  her  handkerchief;  a 
continuous  moan  rose  to  her  lips,  and  through  the 
tears  which  dimmed  her  eyes  she  gazed  at  him 
savagely,  with  all  her  soul,  as  though  she  thought  to 
take  him,  absorb  him,  keep  him  living  in  her  heart. 

Her  boots  and  her  skirt  were  white  with  dust.     From 


ISO  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Vanves  she  had  followed  the  soldiers  on  foot,  without 
feeling  the  fatigue.  She  could  have  wished  this  Via 
Dolorosa  to  go  on  for  ever,  that  she  might  at  least 
have  her  boy  before  her  eyes,  and  be  there  to  defend 
him.  She  would  follow  him  to  the  end,  to  the  very 
last  glance,  to  the  final  echo  of  the  train.  If  it  was 
to  be  for  the  last  time    .    .    . 

Her  thm  back  shook  with  sobs. 

"Do  not  cry,  mother!    ..."  ' 

With  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips,  she  devoured  him 
with  her  eyes.  A  horrible  vision  haunted  her.  She 
seemed  to  see,  beneath  that  white  ghlish  skin,  the 
horrible  structure  of  bones  that  pierces  the  flesh,  the 
terrifying  grin  of  lipless  teeth,  the  double  hole  of  the 
eyes,  that  same  mask  that  she  had  already  seen  when 
they  found  the  other,  her  first-born,  in  a  devastated 
field  of  Artois. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear ! "  she  gasped,  as  if  those 
poor  words  of  love  could  turn  Destiny  from  its  path. 

The  boy  felt  tears  rising  to  his  eyes  from  his  poor 
beating  heart.  To  make  her  forget,  he  forced  himself 
to  a  jest,  with  dry  throat  and  a  sad  smile  that  twisted 
his  lips. 

"I  shall  come  back  aU  right.  .  .  .  Come,  tell 
me  what  you  want  me  to  bring  back  from  over 
yonder.    ..." 

Fiercely,  she  took  his  head  between  her  two  hands, 
and  with  a  moan  she  said  : 

"Just  bring  me  back  your  dear  little  face,  my 
own.    ..." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Slove^tly  dressed,  in  slippers,  with  his  nighi-shiii 
open  at  the  throat,  Francois  Dubourg  perused  what 
he  had  written.  Through  the  window  came  ths  cool 
rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  on  the  white  wall  could  be 
seen  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fluttering  like  wings. 

The  carpet  of  the  study  was  littered  with  news- 
papers. They  lay  on  the  arm-chair,  on  every  piece 
of  furniture,  some  not  yet  unfolded;  by  turning  his 
head,  the  novelist  was  able  to  read  the  headlines  in 
large  type  across  three  columns  :  "  St.  Magloire  Pro- 
vokes a  Scene  in  the  Chamber."  Each  time  this 
caused  a  pang  of  annoyance  and  he  dropped  his  pen, 
disheartened. 

"After  this  performance  of  his,"  he  mused,  pulling 
at  his  beard,  "  I  am  in  the  soup  as  far  as  my  decoration 
is  concerned.  .  .  .  Hard  luck,  just  when  it  had 
been  promised  to  me,  and  on  the  eve  of  the 
nominations,  too.    ..." 

Then,  with  a  sigh  : 

"And  to  what  purpose,  I  ask  you?  He  would  have 
done  far  better  to  hold  his  tongue  !    .    .    . " 

He  wiped  his  glasses  with  a  comer  of  his  handker- 
chief, resuming  his  work  with  the  close  attention  of  an 
accountant.  His  publisher,  on  returning  the  proofs 
of  his  novel.  Monsieur  de  Cambrelus,  which  was  to 
come  out  in  weekly  instalments,  had  asked  him  to 
add  two  lines  to  each  page.  When  the  first  numbers 
had  been  set  up,  it  was  noticed  that  the  pages  looked 
somewhat  empty  and  it  was  necessary  to  lengthen  the 
text,  but  so  that  additional  expense  should  be  avoided, 
the  make-up  was  not  to  be  altered.  The  novelist  had 
met  with  far  stranger  experiences  in  his  career,  so 
that  he  had  not  been  much  surprised  at  this  absurd 

131 


132  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

demand.  Whilst  his  thoughts  dwelt  on  his  brother's 
escapade  and  on  his  lost  decoration,  he  mechanically 
added  the  necessary  lines. 

If  his  nobleman  was  scouring  the  countryside  M. 
Dubourg  caused  the  moon  to  rise  or  the  sun  to  shine 
— it  did  not  much  matter  which — so  long  as  the 
description  did  not  take  up  more  than  two  lines. 
When  M.  de  Cambrelus  came  across  some  country 
bumpkin  at  the  end  of  a  page,  he  exclaimed, 
"Gadzooks!  a  pleasant-visaged  varlet!"  or  shouted 
to  him,  "Hallo,  you  rascal!"  .  .  .  When  he 
espied  the  coach  of  the  beautiful  Piedmontese,  "an 
inexpressible  confusion  suddenly  overwhelmed  his 
mind,"  which  filled  the  space  exactly.  On  the  last 
page  but  one,  he  even  interjected  a  remark  which  was 
totally  irrelevant.  "In  trying  to  do  good,"  declared 
M.  de  Cambrelus,  "a  saint  often  does  more  harm  than 
a  heretic."  The  readers  were  destined  never  to 
understand  why  the  Gascon  Musketeer  had  ventured 
on  such  a  precipitate  statement  to  the  barmaid  of  the 
inn,  who  was  helping  him  to  sausage-pie. 

Even  after  his  task  was  finished,  Francois  Dubourg 
had  not  the  heart  to  proceed  with  his  feuilleton  for  the 
Fran^ais.  His  mind  was  a  blank,  and  he  felt  no 
inclination  to  do  any  more  work.  His  absent  glance 
strayed  to  the  two  diagrams  pinned  on  the  wall :  that 
of  "The  Prince  does  not  Deign,"  covered  with  crosses 
— a  regular  churchyard — and  that  of  "Mademoiselle 
Flamberge" — comparatively  virgin  ground  with  its 
empty  pigeon-holes. 

Since  the  expenditure  of  human  lives  in  his  novels 
was  considerable  and  his  characters  were  always  on 
the  move,  wandering  from  one  end  of  the  country 
to  the  other,  from  Gascony  to  Flanders,  the  novelist 
was  compelled  to  set  up  two  huge  parti-coloured  boards 
where  each  personage  had  his  compartment,  with  his  . 
name  and  description.  It  would,  for  instance,  have 
led  to  confusion  if  a  fair  man  had  suddenly  turned 
dark  or  vice  versa.      He  entered  each  change  in  their 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  133 

fortunes :  "wounded  at  Courtras,"  "nursed  at  the 
castle  of  Vineuse" — "elopement  with  the  daughter 
of  the  Marquis."  .  .  .  When,  finally,  the  thrust 
of  a  dagger  or  a  bullet  from  an  arquebus  laid  the 
young  man  low,  he  simply  drew  a  cross  in  blue  pencil 
over  the  compartment. 

At  ordinary  times,  the  novelist  had  but  to  glance  at 
this  memorandum  and  count  the  empty  allotments 
to  take  fresh  heart,  but  to-day  nothing  could  rouse 
him. 

"He  was  famous,  people  admired  him,  we  had 
everything  at  our  feet,  and  there  he  goes  and  spoils 
everj^ing  by  a  hare-brained  escapade  like  this,"  he 
pondered  dejectedly.  "When  everything  was  going 
so  well,  too  ! " 

M.  Dubourg  went  down  to  the  garden;  time  hung 
heavily  on  his  hands. 

"  Hallo ! "  he  exclaimed  on  reaching  the  terrace, 
"is  that  you? " 

"It  is,"  answered  M.  Van  den  Kris,  who  was  re- 
clining comfortably  in  a  wicker  chair,  his  feet  resting 
on  the  kerb  of  the  old  well.  "I  came  by  the  first 
train." 

"Any  news?" 

"None.  Only  what  the  papers  say.  ...  I  was 
with  him  yesterday  morning,  hut  he  told  me  nothing. 
.    .    .    WTiat  do  you  think  of  it  ? " 

"A  most  terrible  nuisance,"  sighed  the  novelist. 
"Just  what  you  might  expect  him  to  do.    ..." 

M.  Van  den  Kris  indicated  Gerard  with  a  nod. 

"WeU,  your  son  thinks  it  is  wonderful.  He  is  proud 
of  his  uncle  and  is  only  sorry  that  he  wasn't  there 
himself." 

M.  Dubourg,  lenient,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Youth  .  .  ."  he  said.  "If  you  are  not  an 
anarchist  at  twenty  it  shows  you  have  no  heart.  But 
if  you  remain  one  past  that  age,  it  shows  you  are 
an  idiot.     He'll  get  over  it." 

He  glanced  at  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  sighed  : 


134  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"This  won't  make  me  love  the  negroes  any  better." 

The  pseudo-Dutchman  suggested  a  game  of  bowls 
before  lunch  to  drive  away  their  worries. 

"What  are  they  sa3ang  in  Barlincourt ? "  inquired 
M.  Dubourg  between  two  throws. 

Gerard  caught  fire  : 

"  Oh  !  if  you  had  seen  the  workmen  on  their  way 
to  the  factory,  they  were  all  after  me.  .  .  .  One 
had  pinned  the  head-line  from  the  Peuple  across 
his  cap,  "Vive  Saint  Magloire."  They  were  quite 
mad.  They  all  asked  me  when  he  was  coming  back; 
they  want  to  give  him  a  great  reception." 

"That's  it.  Comrade  Burtin  will  deliver  a  speech, 
there  will  be  rounds  of  drinks  and  a  concert  arranged 
by  the  revolutionary  youth.  It  is  just  the  right  pro- 
gramme for  a  saint  ! " 

"Won't  you  really  be  pleased  to  see  my  uncle 
feted?" 

"Not  in  such  a  fashion.  .  .  .  Besides,"  added 
the  novelist  sceptically,  "people  always  begin  by 
carrying  you  in  triumph,  but  it  is  only  to  drop  you 
from  a  greater  height.    ..." 

M.  Van  den  Kris,  who  stood  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
watching  the  game  at  the  other  end  of  the  ground, 
was  losing  patience : 

"HaUo  !  you  there!     Are  you  playing,  or  not?" 

Gerard  paid  no  attention. 

"Well,  I  call  it  simply  wonderful  to  do  what  he 
did  there.  To  throw  in  their  faces,  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  Chamber,  what  everybody  is  thinking." 

"Everybody,"  repeated  M.  Dubourg,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "Who  is  everybody?  Always  the  same 
handful  of  hot-heads,  who  are  always  watching  for  an 
opportunity  to  make  a  row." 

"But  you,  to  start  with.    ..." 

The  novelist  eluded  him. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  everybody.  .  .  . 
Come  on,  play  up,  .  .  .  Livingstone  will  lose  his 
temper.    ..." 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  135 

M.  Van  den  Kris,  however,  was  the  only  one  in  the 
house  who  had  kept  his  composure.  He  had  also 
kept  his  appetite.  During  lunch  he  ate  ravenously. 
Merely  to  watch  him  and  the  Dubourgs  at  their  meals 
was  enought  to  make  anyone  hungry.  The  novelist 
was  never  in  a  bad  temper  when  he  was  eating  and 
drinking.  He  had  been  known  to  refuse  his  children 
some  request  with  the  hors  d'ceuvre — never  with  the 
coffee. 

When  the  maid  carried  in  the  duck-pie,  a  home- 
made pie,  golden,  crisp,  with  the  wings  and  the  drum- 
sticks stiU  in  their  rough-grained  skin,  M.  Dubourg 
and  his  guest  looked  at  each  other  and  nodded,  smilmg 
silently. 

"A  poor  thing — human  gratitude!"  sententiously 
opined  the  novelist,  "when  we  consider  that  we  have 
preserved  the  name  of  the  author  of  the  Arvers  sonnet 
and  forgotten  that  of  the  man  who  invented  pie- 
crust ! " 

Madame  Dubourg  was  proud  of  her  lunch. 

"We  haven't  had  such  a  good  meal  for  a  week  at 
least,  have  we?" 

"No,"  the  husband  agreed;  "since  my  brother's 
arrival  we  might  have  given  points  in  frugality  to  the 
widow  Pele.  I  have  never  come  across  anyone  who 
cared  as  little  about  his  food  as  he  does  !  The  man 
was  bom  to  be  a  hermit.  In  my  opinion,  by  enjoying 
good  living  in  my  own  way  I  am  giving  glory  to  God. 
If  He  had  wished  man  to  find  no  pleasure  in  his  food 
He  would  not  have  created  chickens  or  given  artichokes 
a  heart;  He  would  simply  have  provided  the  world 
with  mines  of  cold  veal." 

WTien  coffee  was  served,  he  said  to  his  wife,  who 
was  pouring  out  the  cognac  : 

"Go  on — you  can  fill  it  up,  it  won't  go  to  my  head." 

He  had  resumed  the  jovial  demeanour  which  had 
characterised  his  attitude  before  the  untoward  happen- 
ings of  the  last  week,  and  for  the  first  time  his  children 
heard  him  refer  to  his  brother  in  an  almost  playful  tone. 


136  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

As  he  rose  from  the  table,  M.  Dubourg,  having 
regained  his  composure,  came  to  a  decision  : 

"I  have  a  good  mind,  after  all,  to  go  to  Reuil 
and  see  what  is  happening  there." 

Gerard  jumped  at  this; 

"You  will  take  me  with  you,  won't  you?" 

M.  Van  den  Kris  offered  to  go  with  them,  but 
changed  his  mind  on  the  way,  and  when  they  arrived 
in  Paris  only  saw  them  to  the  tramway  of  the  Porte 
Maillot,  giving  the  lateness  of  the  hour  as  an  excuse. 

The  Dubourgs,  following  the  instructions  of  Jos 
Van  den  Kris,  got  out  at  Malmaison  and  found  no 
need  to  ask  their  way  :  a  double  file  of  people,  one 
going  and  the  other  returning,  pointed  it  out  to  them. 
As  soon  as  the  papers  had  disclosed  the  retreat  of  the 
saint,  sight-seers  had  flocked  to  it.  The  approach  to 
Source  Josephine  was  barred  by  a  cordon  in  front  of 
the  iron  gate  :  but  the  crowd  remained  stationary 
round  the  establishment,  unoccupied  but  full  of  per- 
severance, quite  content  to  be  allowed  to  gape  at  the 
few  privileged  persons  who  were  admitted  within. 

They  drew  up  in  line  before  the  novelist  and  his  son, 
at  once  on  the  alert.  Those  who  were  nearest  pricked 
up  their  ears,  when  M.  Dubourg  gave  his  name  to  the 
sergeant. 

"It  is  his  brother." 

At  once,  the  idlers  clustered  round  him.  Gerard 
blushed  with  pride.  Unable  to  contain  himself,  he 
whispered  to  a  young  man  : 

"And  this  isn't  the  end  of  it.    ..." 

It  may  have  been  the  warning,  magnified  as  it 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  which  inspired  the  Com- 
missaire  with  the  idea  of  doubling  the  number  of  his 
men  and  asking  Paris  for  reinforcements. 

The  house  was  in  a  turmoil,  though  nothing  was 
apparent.  A  silent  perturbation,  an  uneasiness  which 
tried  to  hide  itself.  The  inmates  kept  to  their  rooms, 
the  staff  knew  nothing.  Between  vespers  and  Bene- 
diction   the    garden    remained    deserted;      emptiness 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  137 

reigned  everywhere.  At  the  door  of  the  parlour,  a 
clean-shaven  civilian,  whose  long  frock-coat  was 
vaguely  reminiscent  of  a  cassock,  politely  denied 
entrance  to  a  journalist. 

"No  one,  sir,  absolutely  no  one.  We  are  under 
strict  orders." 

"  Orders  from  whom  ? "  insisted  the  reporter. 

An  evasive  gesture  left  him  in  doubt :  it  might  as 
easily  have  been  the  Pope  as  the  Prefect  of  Police. 

Magloire  Dubourg  received  his  family  in  his  room. 
They  were  struck  by  the  bareness  of  it;  the  walls  held 
nothing  but  a  crucifix  with  an  ivory  Christ,  a  branch 
of  blessed  palms  stuck  between  one  arm  and  the  cross. 
Father  Labry  was  sitting  with  him,  an  anxious  look 
upon  his  face. 

Leaning  against  the  window  sill,  another  missionary 
was  reading. 

The  saint  seemed  neither  more  agitated  nor  more 
grave  than  usual.  The  day  before  had  really  meant 
no  more  to  him  than  other  days;  and  the  commotion 
which  it  had  aroused,  though  it  surprised  him,  left 
him  quite  unruffled.  He  had  not  even  wished  to 
glance  at  the  evening  papers  which  the  missionary 
was  reading  in  his  stead,  and  he  listened  absent- 
mindedly  to  the  passages  that  were  read  aloud  for 
his  benefit.  Each  attack,  on  the  contrary,  deeply 
impressed  Father  Labry,  who  sadly  shook  his  white 
head  and  sighed  broken-heartedly. 

Gerard  flew  into  a  passion  over  an  article  signed  by 
Bemheim. 

"How  beastly!" 

The  Evangelist  smiled  at  him  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  indifferently. 

A  perfidious  paragraph  of  a  semi-official  character 
insinuated  that  the  disturbances  in  West  Africa  might 
have  been  caused  by  the  forty  years  of  the  saint's 
propaganda,  and  on  the  other  hand,  someone  "in  the 
immediate  circle  of  the  Archbishop  of  Paris"  (one 
knows    what    that    means)    had       declared    in    the 


138  ^AINT   MAGLOIRE 

National  that  the  Church  absolutely  disapproved  of 
the  attitude  of  the  eminent  traveller,  who,  moreover, 
did  not  belong  to  a  religious  order  and  had  no 
"authority  whatever"  :  these  two  words  were  printed 
in  italics  in  the  paragraph. 

Seated  in  his  wicker  chair,  Magloire  Dubourg  gazed 
at  the  crucifix :  an  infinite  tenderness  illumined  his 
countenance. 

"Look  here,  you  are  not  going  to  accept  such  treat- 
ment v^ithout  defending  j^ourself,"  stormed  Father 
hahvy  for  the  twentieth  time. 

Without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  Christ,  his  lips 
hardly  moving,  the  saint  replied  : 

"Let  it  be.  .  .  .  A  cross  of  insults  is  a  cross 
easily  borne." 

"But  this  is  all  a  tissue  of  lies." 

"  No  matter.  Sometimes  we  describe  as  calumnies  the 
truths  of  which  we  are  ashamed.  And,  after  all,  if  I  were 
pleasing  to  men,  I  would  not  be  the  servant  of  God." 

Gerard  bent  his  head,  raging  inwardly.  He  would 
have  liked  to  see  his  uncle  standing  up  against  the 
slanderers,  fighting  them  and  rousing  the  suburbs  to 
impassioned  resistance;  whereas,  between  these  two 
priests,  he  only  beheld  a  righteous  man,  resignedly 
submitting  to  undeserved  stripes. 

"Why  should  I  resent  their  ignorance  of  the  truth?" 
the  old  man  continued — "If  they  already  knew  it, 
would  He  Who  sent  me  have  dragged  me  away  from 
my  forests  to  come  and  preach  to  them?" 

The  thin  hands  of  Father  Labry  were  nervously 
tieing  and  untieing  his  girdle,  which  was  twisted  round 
his  waist  like  a  cord. 

"You  know  me,  Magloire,  I  am  a  tough  old  cus- 
tomer. I  don't  mind  turning  my  right  cheek  after  the 
left,  but  all  the  same  it  must  not  last  too  long.  .  .  . 
I  agree  with  St.  Anthony :  '  Be  content  with  not 
returning  more  blows  than  you  have  received.'  Well, 
you  have  some  blows  to  the  good.    ..." 

Gerard  interposed  impetuously  : 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  139 

"I  feel  sure  that  everyone  would  back  my  uncle  in 
any  course  he  might  take." 

The  second  missionary,  having  folded  up  his  news- 
papers, had  left  the  room,  called  away  by  the  bell  for 
evening  service.  For  a  while,  silence  feU  between 
the  foiu-  men. 

"Couldn't  you  return  to  Barlincourt  now?"  asked 
M.  Frangois  Dubourg.  "You  would  be  more  com- 
fortable than  you  are  here,  more  free." 

The  saint  pondered  over  this  suggestion  for  a  moment : 

"No,  not  yet.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  shall  go  to  Paris 
for  a  few  days.     Afterwards,  I  shall  see." 

The  novelist  looked  vexed. 

"To  Paris,  the  deuce  !  .  .  .  But  that  will  cause 
a  lot  of  talk.  It  will  provoke  fresh  trouble  and  you'll 
end  by  making  yourself  unpopular." 

Gerard  jumped  to  his  feet  as  if  released  by  a  spring  : 

"Not  at  aU,  on  the  contrary." 

"Pardon  me,  Gerard,  I  am  speaking  seriously,"  his 
father  interrupted  him  curtly.  He  drew  closer  to  his 
brother  : 

"Come,  be  reasonable,"  he  urged  in  persuasive 
tones,  "if  you  begin  haranguing  the  Parisians,  don't 
think  it  will  be  the  good  CathoUcs  who  will  come  from 
their  parishes  to  hear  you.  Those  people  loathe  pub- 
licity of  any  kind.  .  .  .  You  will  only  attract  the 
worst  sort  of  riff-raff,  and  it  is  quite  certain  to  lead  to 
trouble  in  the  end." 

Magloire  Dubourg  stared  at  the  novelist. 

"Do  you  think  I  came  to  convert  honest  people? 
You  say  that  I  shall  only  attract  the  rogues.  Well ! 
so  much  the  better,  for  they  are  the  men  I  want  above 
all  to  convince.  It  is  not  the  people  who  are  in  good 
health  who  need  the  physician,  but  the  others.    ..." 

The  old  man  remained  thoughtful  for  a  long  while; 
then  he  began  to  speak  again,  but  in  a  far  away  voice, 
with  unseeing  eyes,  as  if  his  words  were  dictated  by  a 
thought  from  outside.  The  three  men  listened  absent- 
mindedly,  convinced  beforehand,  like  the  devotee  who 


140  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

in  church  Hstens  to  the  priest  pouring  out  imprecations 
on  ever-absent  libertines.  Gradually  their  attention 
wandered.  Gerard  was  thinking  of  Jaures;  M. 
Dubourg  of  his  decoration;  Father  Labry  looked 
back  to  his  first  meeting  with  Saint  Magloire  on  the 
Logone,  near  the  entrance  to  the  village,  a  baya  with 
cabins  of  woven  matting. 

Sentence  followed  sentence,  stem  as  the  verses  of  a 
psalm. 

"No,  Time  is  not  our  Master.  We  shall  endure  as 
long  as  it  endures,  and  we  shall  perish  only  when  it 
perishes,  when  the  doors  of  Eternity  have  opened, 
where  its  limits  and  our  bodies  will  be  no  more.    .    .    ." 

AH  this  passed  over  their  heads  like  the  drone  of  a 
prayer.  M.  Dubourg  dozed.  Now  and  then  Father 
Labry 's  chin  dropped  to  his  chest,  but  he  immediately 
roused  himself,  his  eyes  misty.  With  a  clammy 
tongue  he  mumbled  indistinctly,  and  forced  himself 
to  listen,  his  glance  riveted  on  his  friend,  whose  face 
faded  away  little  by  little  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

The  saint  was  revealing  aU  that  he  carried  in  that 
inspired  heart  of  his.  He  spoke  at  length,  dwelling 
on  the  eternal  progress  of  the  universe,  the  continual 
renewal  of  Life.  Stripped  of  their  mysteries  the 
truths  of  the  Gospel  appeared  in  aU  their  luminous 
simplicity;  before  them  speculations  and  false  doc- 
trines fell  to  the  ground. 

"They  have  not  seen,  neither  have  they  under- 
stood," the  saint  murmured  sombrely.  "Where  are 
the  souls  of  our  dead,  tell  me,  where  are  their 
souls?  .  .  .  Thou  knowest  it,  O  Lord,  that  they 
are  still  in  our  devastated  Eden,  living  over  and  over 
again;  the  breath  which  Thou  blewest  into  Adam's 
mouth  cannot  have  faded.  .  .  .  Thy  truth  blinds 
me  :  none  will  die  before  the  End  which  will  be  pro- 
claimed by  Thy  trumpets.  We  are  Abel  and  Cain 
and  all  the  men  who  ever  lived,  who  were  only  our- 
selves in  other  lives." 

The    sound    of    deep    breathing   wrested    the   saint 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  14^ 

trom  his  ecstasy.  His  eyes  and  his  mind  retitrned  to 
«;arth;    he  gazed  around  him,  in  the  darkening  room. 

No  one  was  Hstening. 

With  his  head  sunk  on  his  shoulder,  open  mouthed, 
Father  Labry  was  sleeping.  M.  Dubourg,  leaning 
against  the  bed-post,  also  seemed  to  be  slumbering. 
Gerard  had  noiselessly  drawn  near  the  window  and, 
with  bent  head,  he  stared  dreamily  beyond  the  black 
trees  to  the  road  which  was  swept  by  the  headlights 
of  motor-cars. 

The  sudden  silence  of  the  saint  conveyed  no  warn- 
ing to  them.  No  one  stirred.  Should  he  call  to 
them?     But  to  what  purpose? 

The  window  made  a  patch  of  twilight  and,  after 
looking  at  it,  the  room  seemed  a  little  darker,  as  if 
night  had  leapt  in  with  a  spring.  AU  was  black. 
The  sound  of  the  two  men  restfully  breathing  punc- 
tuated the  silence. 

Saint  Magloire  glanced  up  at  the  ivory  Christ  on 
the  black  wall.  Little  by  little  the  Body  seemed  to 
be  lifting  itself  out  of  the  shadows,  a  dawn  was  break- 
ing.   ..    . 

With  head  stretched  forward  and  shaking  hands, 
the  saint  stared  at  the  Figure  with  its  pierced  side, 
which  slowly  was  coming  back  to  life.  The  meagre 
ribs  heaved  with  a  sobbing  breath  :  the  Head  vmder 
its  crown  of  thorns  turned  from  side  to  side,  the  lank 
sorrowful  arms  writhed  on  the  wood.  .  .  .  After 
twenty  centuries,  He  was  still  suffering  on  His  Cross, 

For  one  long  week  Source  Josephine  was  besieged 
by  the  inquisitive  and  the  infirm.  The  latter  ar- 
rived in  hundreds  from  all  over  the  country,  even 
from  abroad :  incurable  cases,  whose  only  hope  lay 
in  a  miracle.  The  Avenue  Ducis  looked  like  a  street 
of  Lourdes,  packed  with  invalid  chairs,  in  which 
children  were  being  dragged  along,  and  crowded 
with  the  halt  and  the  blind,  with  sick  people  whose 
cheeks  were  hollow,  shivering  in  spite  of  their  blankets, 

K 


142  SAINT   MAGLOlKi:, 

with  repulsive  beggars  who  harried  the  public  by 
displaying  their  hideous  stumps.  The  cafes  in  the 
neighbourhood  carried  on  a  roaring  trade  and  the 
crowd  overflowed  as  far  as  the  Park  of  Malmaoon, 
whose  lawns  were  littered  with  grea&[/  papers  and 
empty  bottles.  Street  vendors  hawked  the  photograph 
of  the  saint,  whilst  others  sold  the  portrait  of  the 
>)lind  man  cured  by  Saint  Magloire,  bearing  on  the 
reverse  side  the  "true  prayer  of  the  saint :" 

"In  the  Name  of  the  Father,  the  Son  and  the  Holy 
Ghost,  of  the  holy  Lady  Anne  who  gave  birth  to  the 
Virgin  Mary,  who  gave  birth  to  Jesus  Christ,  may 
God  bless  thee  and  heal  thee,  poor  suffering  human 
creature,  to  the  glory  of  God,  the  Holy  Archangel 
Michael  and  Saint  Magloire  !     Amen." 

As  the  Evangelist  did  not  show  himself,  the  crowd 
soon  became  irritable.  At  times  the  impatient  flood, 
gulled  by  false  news,  rolled  towards  the  railings,  try- 
ing to  crumple  up  the  police  cordon.  But  nothing 
was  to  be  seen,  and  from  the  multitude  which  was 
being  pressed  backwards  there  arose  a  chorus  of  pro- 
tests, complaints,  and  jests. 

They  clamoured  for  Saint  Magloire  to  the  strains 
of  a  popular  tune  and  sang  in  unison  a  ballad  sold 
by  the  hawkers,  whose  refrain  ran  : 

"He  hails  from  the  land  of  bananas." 

Invalids  and  mothers  held  out  their  arms  in  sup- 
plication, but  the  house,  with  its  closed  shutters,  did 
not  respond.  Except  for  the  bell,  which  tolled  for 
the  services,  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  life  within 
its  walls. 

Then,  from  day  to  day,  the  crowd  became  tumultuous 
and  hostile.  After  that  it  dwindled  away.  The 
cripples  were  the  only  ones  who  kept  on  returning, 
as  nimierous  as  ever  :  they  foregathered  in  groups, 
always  the  same,  and  recounted  their  infirmities  to 
each  other.  To  keep  up  their  hopes  they  harped 
untirmgly  on  the  miracles  of  Saint  Magloire. 

One  evening  after  a  stifling  day,  which  the  crowd 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  143 

spent  in  tramping  about  in  the  sun,  a  most  startling 
incident  occurred.  At  the  foot  of  a  big  tree,  leaning 
over  an  invalid  carriage  a  woman  yelled. 

"My  child!     Quick,  quick,  she  is  dying,  help!' 

The  little  girl  lay  motionless,  with  a  waxen  com- 
plexion and  hollow  eyes.  Her  discoloured  lips,  open 
in  a  dreadful  smile,  disclosed  clenched  teeth.  A  mob 
collected 

"The  saint  should  be  told.  Go  and  ring  the  bell," 
said  someone. 

Thereupon  a  confused  running  to  and  fro  ensued; 
people  rushed  away;  the  police  officer  sent  off  cyclist 
messengers,  somebody  came  out  of  Source  Josephine 
with  ether  and  some  linen.  The  child  had  stopped 
breathing  and  the  mother,  overwhelmed  by  grief, 
sobbed  against  a  tree.     It  was  all  over.    .    .    . 

The  next  day,  certain  papers  printed  in  heavy 
type:  "Saint  Magloire  allows  a  child  to  die  on  his 
doorstep." 

Others,  by  way  of  opposition,  congratulated  him 
on  keeping  up  this  attitude  and  refusing  to  lend 
himself  to  fresh  demonstrations. 

After  this  event,  the  excitement  of  the  crowd 
dropped.  Soon  only  two  policemen  were  left  on  duty. 
The  few  idlers  who  still  strolled  along  the  Aveune 
Ducis  only  glanced  at  the  house  and  passed  on. 

Inside  the  establishment,  the  inmates  had  split  into 
two  groups :  the  first — missionaries  all  of  them — 
remained  faithful  to  Saint  Magloire,  but  the  second 
showed  a  hostile  reserve.  They  were  frightened  by 
the  heterodox  pronouncements  of  the  Evangelist,  his 
disagreements  with  the  Archbishop,  and,  finally, 
his  scandalous  intervention  in  the  Chamber.  They 
anxiously  commented  with  the  Superior  on  those 
articles  in  the  papers  which  discussed  the  doctrine 
of  the  saint,  every  editor  having  apparently  attached 
to  himself  a  private  theologian. 

"His  whole  doctrine  rests  on  an  assumption  which 
has  been  admitted  like  a  fact,  and  on  a  hope,  which 


144  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

has  been  presented  as  a  certainty,"  could  be  read  in 
the  National.  "Magloire  Dubourg  has  composed  a 
system  for  his  own  use,  which  combines  Buddhistic 
principles.  Christian  dogma,  and  spiritualistic  beliefs; 
and  the  whole  is  presented  with  an  out-of-date 
humanitarianism  which  seems  to  belong  to  the  days 
of  Fourier  and  Saint  Simon." 

L'lllustre  was  stiU  more  caustic. 

"It  needs  a  strong  dose  of  ingenuousness,"  its  editor 
wrote,  "to  believe  that  it  is  possible  to  transform  the 
world  with  half  a  dozen  ideas." 

Many  already  looked  upon  Magloire  Dubourg  as  a 
schismatic  on  the  point  of  founding  a  new  religion, 
and  they  cited  discouraging  precedents  :  Vintras,  the 
sham  prophet  from  Lyons,  who  founded  the  creed  of 
mercy,  Auguste  Comte,  and  even  Abbe  Chatel,  who 
ended  his  days  as  a  grocer.  Bernheim,  turning  Chris- 
tian for  the  occasion,  did  his  best  to  tear  to  pieces  the 
doctrine  of  the  man  from  Africa. 

"I  do  not  see  much  difference,"  he  wrote,  "between 
this  unlimited  transmigration  of  souls  without  memory 
and  materialism  pure  and  simple.  It  is  not  the  im- 
morality of  the  substance  that  matters,  it  is  that  of 
the  personality — and  the  latter  does  not  exist  or  it  is 
not  realised."  ' 

Scientific  men  mocked  at  reincarnation  and  believers 
were  indignant.  Jacques  de  Nointel  was  to  be  found 
among  the  few  who  defended  these  theories,  or  at 
least  presented  them  in  good  faith. 

"One  should  not,  as  many  have  done,  liken  this 
belief  to  the  Buddhist  doctrine,"  he  explained.  "They 
are  not  only  different,  but  contradictory.  In  fact,  the 
doctrine  of  Sakia  Mouni  in  a  way  justifies  social  in- 
equalities, since  it  claims  that  the  place  occupied  by 
the  individual  in  society  depends  on  the  merit  of  his 
actions  in  former  lives  which  bring  reward  or  chastise- 
ment; whereas  Saint  Magloire  founds  his  teaching  on 
goodwill  and  mutual  assistance,  for  man  cannot  know 
in    what    form    his    eternal    soul    will    come    to    life 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  145 

to-morrow.  If  we  admit  this,  we  must  bring  about 
the  reign  of  universal  happiness,  in  order  some  day  to 
have  our  share  of  it." 

All  these  effusions,  like  a  crop  of  heresies,  unsettled 
the  priests.  Their  admiration  gave  place  to  fear : 
they  avoided  the  saint,  they  very  nearly  shunned  him. 
Magloire  Dubourg,  fortunately,  appeared  but  seldom. 
The  regulations  having  been  relaxed,  he  was  accosted 
each  time  he  went  out  by  reporters,  would-be  patients, 
and  maniacs  who  lay  in  wait  for  him  in  the  garden; 
and  to  escape  them  he  kept  almost  entirely  to  his 
room. 

But  in  spite  of  all  these  precautions,  the  relentless 
pursuers  succeeded  in  reaching  him,  and  the  old  man 
was  obliged  to  submit  to  the  strangest  conversations. 
One  morning  a  beggar,  who  imagined  herself  to  be 
Cleopatra  re-incarnated,  became  violent  and  had  to 
be  dragged  away.  Another  madwoman  implored  him 
to  exorcise  her  because  the  Devil  had  breathed  into 
her  the  spirit  of  a  poisoner.  This  was  probably  a  result 
of  the  newspaper  polemics  on  the  subject  of  trans- 
migration which  had  turned  the  brains  of  these 
unhappy  creatures. 

Now  began  the  procession  of  business  men  and 
traffickers  in  doubtful  trades  : 

A  famished-looking  doctor,  with  the  stamp  of 
clandestine  obstetrics  upon  him,  and  accompanied  by 
his  sleeping  partner,  came  to  the  saint  with  the  pro- 
posal that  he  should  open  a  sort  of  clinic  in  Paris, 
where  he  could  heal  the  sick  under  the  control  of  the 
Medical  Faculty.  A  regular  salary  of  400,000  francs 
was  guaranteed  to  Magloire,  plus  a  percentage  on  the 
profits.  The  miracle  man  drove  them  out,  but  as 
they  retreated  before  his  wrath,  the  sleeping  partner, 
an  olive-skinned  Levantine,  crooked  the  fingers  of  his 
right  hand  to  ward  off  the  evil  eye. 

Someone  else  offered  to  publish  the  Memoirs  of  the 
Evangelist  in  four  languages,  and  to  organise  a  lecture 
tour   round   the   world.     This    man    did   not    demand 


146  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

miracles  as  a  regular  attraction,  but  suggested  that 
they  should  happen  occasionally.  After  these  came 
the  procession  of  visionaries,  adepts  of  strange  sects 
who  thought  they  had  found  their  Prophet  in  the 
saint,  occultists  and  psychics,  supported  by  their 
mediums,  who  wished  to  induce  the  all-powerful  old 
man  to  help  them  in  evoking  the  spirits  of  the  departed 
by  turning  tables  or  sending  their  subjects  to  sleep. 
It  was  perhaps  in  order  to  wear  out  the  saint  that  the 
Superior  of  the  establishment  allowed  them  all  to 
enter,  while  he  pretended  to  send  them  away. 

Thus  there  arrived  from  Lyons  a  delegation  from 
the  Gnostic  Church,  headed  by  its  Patriarch,  a  certain 
M.  Piquenol,  who  styled  himself  John  III.  Magloire 
Dubourg,  who  until  then  had  been  in  absolute  ignor- 
ance of  the  sect  of  Fabre  des  Essarts,  received  them 
wearily  but  without  mistrust,  and  listened  to  their 
speeches,  whose  meaning  he  did  not  always  catch. 
The  Patriarch,  a  little  pot-bellied  man,  wore  a  bowler 
hat  and  had  slipped  his  ceremonial  insignia  over  his 
tweed  coat.  His  assistant  would  have  filled  the  part 
better,  for  he  carried  himself  with  the  dignity  conferred 
on  him  by  his  tall  figure,  his  white  beard  and  high, 
bald  forehead;  but  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  mouth 
his  stutter  made  him  ridiculous,  the  more  so  as  he 
fought  for  his  words  with  comical  insistence.  The 
third  delegate,  a  tall  old  man  -with  stiff  legs  and  a  long 
scraggy  neck,  came  to  his  rescue  and  finished  the 
sentence  without  hesitation,  for  all  three  thought  in 
unison,  though  never  for  long. 

The  three  men,  each  speaking  in  turn,  expounded 
their  doctrine  :  the  world  as  the  creation  of  the  Devil, 
earthly  life  as  the  reign  of  Satan. 

"Man  ought  to  he  ...  he  ...  he  ,.  ." 
obstinately  stammered  the  purple-faced  assistant. 

"Help  God  to  defeat  the  Master  of  Evil,"  mechani- 
cally completed  the  stiff-legged  initiate. 

In  the  garden,  the  Superior  lamented  with  a  sigh. 

"What  a  pity  !    There  he  is  now  giving  audience  to 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  147 

heretics.  .  .  .  Condemned  by  the  Holy  See,  do 
you  hear  that?  I  remember  that  m  his  ApostoUc 
Letter  His  Holiness  Leo  XHL  went  so  far  as  to  call 
them  Albigenses.    .    .    ," 

When  the  three  men  had  departed,  shown  out  by 
Magloire  Dubourg,  the  Superior  followed  John  HI. 
with  suspicious  eyes,  discovering  in  the  red-bearded 
citizen  of  Lyons  a  resemblance  to  Satan. 

The  medical  profession  also  took  an  interest  in  the 
"case"  of  the  miracle  worker,  and  Magloire  Dubourg 
underwent  a  minute  examination  by  a  famous  neurol- 
ogist, who  was  anxious  to  show  that  the  magnetic 
influence  of  the  explorer  was  the  explanation  of  the 
miracles. 

"Why  do  you  attach  so  much  importance  to  such 
small  matters  ? "  the  saint,  irritated,  finally  demanded 
of  him.  "In  this  world  where  everything  is  but  a 
continual  miracle,  how  can  you  be  amazed  at  these 
few  miserable  cures?  Are  not  all  things  that  surround 
us  far  more  mysterious?  Explain  to  me  how  the 
planets  revolve,  how  thought  is  born,  and  I  may  per- 
haps tell  you  by  what  means  my  blind  man  recovered 
his  sight.    ..." 

At  last,  the  establishment  being  no  longer  besieged 
by  the  crowds,  Saint  Magloire  began  to  go  out :  the 
time  was  ripe  to  open  his  propaganda. 

From  the  very  first  days,  these  sermons  in  the  open 
caused  an  extraordinary  sensation  in  Paris.  The  old 
man  spoke  wherever  he  happened  to  find  himself :  at 
factories  as  the  workmen  were  leaving,  at  the  doors 
of  churches,  in  the  cafes  in  industrial  districts;  and 
he  had  been  seen,  almost  at  the  same  hour,  in  the  Pare 
Monceau  among  the  children  of  the  rich  and  on  the 
shabby  slopes  of  the  Boulevard  Bessi^res  surroimded 
by  apaches  and  loose  women. 

Astounded  by  his  sudden  advent  in  their  midst, 
people  at  first  listened  to  him  with  curiosity,  mainly 
interested  in  his  appearance;  but  soon  they  succumbed 
to  the  power  of  his  personality.     His  ardent  eloquence 


148  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

stirred  them  profoundly;  he  was  the  bearer  of  new 
promises  and  the  soul  of  the  people  always  responds 
to  a  message  of  hope. 

The  saint's  fame  spread  through  the  suburbs  like  a 
fever.  People  lay  in  wait  for  him,  and,  as  soon  as 
they  caught  sight  of  him,  the  workmen's  dwellings 
emptied  themselves  into  the  street  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  :  artisans  left  their  tools,  and  joined  the  rush 
of  shirt-sleeved  men  and  aproned  housewives.  The 
saint  was  hemmed  in  on  all  sides;  everyone  tried  to 
touch  his  bare  hand  and  the  mothers  held  out  their 
children  to  ask  his  blessing  on  them. 

"I  cannot,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  a  priest." 

But  he  lifted  the  grimy  babies  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
them,  while  the  multitude  cheered. 

Now  and  then  there  came  interruptions.  When 
these  proceeded  from  drunkards  or  brawlers,  the  others 
promptly  silenced  them  and  sent  them  flying;  but 
sometimes  an  unconvinced  listener  or  a  militant  fre- 
quenter of  public  meetings  heckled  the  saint  and  the 
latter  argued  with  him,  standing  on  the  steps  of  a 
church,  or  on  a  chair  borrowed  from  a  bar. 

The  Government  at  last  became  disquieted  by  this 
agitation  and  attempts  were  made  to  catch  Magloire 
at  fault.  Dubious  looking  individuals  were  seen  to 
mix  with  the  crowd  and  they  endeavoured  to  extract 
dangerous  admissions  and  incitements  to  rioting  from 
the  Evangelist;  but  the  saint,  in  his  innocence,  foiled 
them  every  time,  for  he  preached  nothing  but  good- 
will alike  to  the  embittered  paupers  and  to  the 
policemen  who  were  tiying  to  embroil  him  in  a 
disturbance. 

One  morning  when  the  saint,  perched  on  a  coil  of 
ropes,  was  preaching  on  the  banks  of  the  Saint  Martin 
Canal,  these  soothing  words  exasperated  a  bargeman. 
There  was  a  smell  of  green  bilcr  water,  and  the  steam 
tugs,  with  their  hoarse  blast,  trailed  their  smoke  across 
the  sky. 

"So  that's  it,"  interrupted  the  man  with  the  blue 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  149 

jersey.  "We  must  let  the  capitalists  gobble  us  up 
and  keep  mum?  You've  an  oily  tongue  like  the  rest 
of  'em,  you  have.    ..." 

The  saint  was  not  offended. 

"I  do  not  tell  you  to  bend  your  backs,"  he  replied. 
"On  the  contrary,  I  tell  you  to  stand  up,  the  hour  is 
near.  .  .  .  But  if  the  oppressed  only  think  of  be- 
coming tyrants  in  their  turn,  I  loathe  them  no  less 
than  I  loathe  their  oppressors." 

"Well,  then,  what  is  one  to  do?"  insisted  the  man, 
to  whom  this  religious  talk  was  unintelligible. 

"First  of  all,  believe  in  God,"  thundered  the  Evan- 
gelist. "As  long  as  faith  has  not  purified  their  hearts, 
people  will  talk  of  justice,  but  only  in  order  to  rob 
others  in  its  name.  Look  around  you  !  Is  the  world 
just?" 

A  clamour  answered  him  : 

"No,  no." 

"But  look  into  your  hearts,"  continued  the  saint, 
"what  reigns  in  them  but  envy?  Believe  me,  you 
bargeman,  it  is  not  by  plundering  the  rich  that  the 
hosts  of  the  poor  are  lessened  :  more  people  become 
poor,  that  is  all.  .  .  .  What  must  you  do?  You 
asked  me  just  now.  I  answer  you  :  believe,  believe  ! 
When  men  know  the  truth  they  will  understand  that 
we  have ,  to  live  on  earth  until  the  end  of  aU  time, 
powerful  to-day  and  miserable  to-morrow,  at  the  mercy 
of  the  great  wind,  which  bears  their  souls  along. 
There  wUl  be  no  more  hatred  and  everyone  wiU  work 
for  universal  happiness,  since  by  doing  so  he  will 
work  for  his  own.  .  .  .  Do  not  look  far  afield  for 
the  enemies  whom  you  must  vanquish  before  happi- 
ness may  reign  on  earth  :  the  worst  enemy  resides 
within  yourselves.  So  long  as  man  shall  covet  his 
neighbour's  wife  or  his  neighbour's  goods,  so  long 
as  the  strong  shall  believe  that  he  has  a  right  over 
the  weak,  so  long  as  justice  has  to  carry  a  sword,  so 
long  shall  the  World  seek  for  its  lost  Paradise.    .    .    ." 

A   long   '^v    of   heads   craned   curiously   over    the 


150  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

parapet.  The  steps  were  black  with  people.  Some, 
at  the  imminent  risk  of  tumbling  into  the  water  at 
each  push,  had  climbed  on  to  the  barges  which  lay 
at  the  wharf;  whilst  others,  with  the'-,  clothes 
whitened  by  plaster,  hoisted  themselves  on  to  piles 
of  sacks. 

The  latest  comers  pressed  into  the  crowd;  people 
were  jammed  against  the  wall  and  scraped  their 
knuckles  on  the  rough  stone,  and  new  arrivals  were 
still  to  be  seen  running  across  the  bridge.  The  silence 
was  profound :  only  in  the  distance  the  grating  of 
carriage  wheels,  the  crash  of  unloaded  scrap  iron, 
the  hoot  of  motor-cars,  all  the  noises  of  the  street.    .    . 

"I  have  scoured  the  world;  I  have  lived  in  the 
forests  where  God  provides  his  creatures  with  bread, 
milk,  butter,  wine,  with  the  sap  and  the  fruit  of  the 
trees.  I  have  laboured  in  the  mines,  where  each 
blow  of  the  pickaxe  lays  bare  a  treasure;  I  have  har- 
vested in  the  fields  which  ever  grow  green  again,  and 
I  know  now  that  the  Earth  is  rich  enough  to  give  to 
each  far  beyond  his  wants.  .  ,  .  Work :  your 
effort  will  be  repaid  unto  you  a  hundredfold.  But  if 
someone  says  to  you  :  "I  do  not  work  because  I  am 
the  Master,"  drive  him  out  without  pity,  for  he  has 
blasphemed.  For  there  is  no  other  Master  but  God. 
Cursed  be  the  wicked  who  want  to  wax  fat  on  the 
bread  which  others  have  earned  by  the  sweat  of  their 
brow.  Cry  to  them  like  St.  Paul  "May  they  starve 
who  will  not  work." 

He  flung  out  these  words  with  all  his  strength,  em- 
phasising them  with  his  clenched  fist,  and  his  anathema 
reverberated  through  the  tense  silence.  A  shiver 
passed  over  the  entire  crowd  of  workmen.  Then 
there  burst  forth  a  frantic  cheer,  a  frenzied  clamour  : 

"Long  live  Saint  Magloire." 

Simburnt  arms,  hands  hardened  by  work,  stretched 
foi"ward,  trying  to  seize  him,  to  carry  him  in  triumph, 
but  the  Evangelist  pushed  them  aside,  still  endea- 
vouring to  make  himself  heard  in  the  uproar. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  151 

The  crowd  eddied  and  swirled.  .  .  .  Genuine 
enthusiasts  and  evil-minded  agitators  were  attempting 
to  sway  the  mob. 

"To  Paris,  to  Paris." 

Constables  were  seen  rushing  across  the  bridge. 
Lorries  from  the  Prefecture  were  unloading  others  on 
the  quay,  while  police  sergeants  drew  a  cordon  round 
the  place. 

"Cut  off  the  saint.  ...  No  violence!"  rapped 
out  a  man  in  a  frock  coat,  who  was  made  ridiculous 
by  the  contrast  of  an  umbrella  held  against  his  tri- 
colour scarf  of  office. 

The  multitude  howled,  but  from  a  safe  distance, 
no  longer  daring  to  advance.  Women  were  trying 
to  struggle  free,  lifting  their  children  into  the  air. 
Round  Saint  Magloire  the  more  resolute  gathered 
in  a  solid  block. 

"Don't  worry.    .    .    .     We'll    stick  to  you.    .    .    ." 

Stifled  shrieks  rang  out  amidst  hooting  and  whist- 
ling. With  rapid  steps  the  police  brutally  bore  down 
on  the  crowd.  The  Evangelist,  mounted  on  a  lorry 
that  was  being  unloaded,  suddenly  appeared  above 
them  all. 

"Disperse,"  he  ordered.  .  .  .  "Let  everyone  go 
home.  ...  I  promise  you  that  we  shall  meet 
again." 

Fresh  cheering  answered  him,  but  he  lost  himself 
in  the  press.  He  probably  passed  through  one  of  the 
houses,  going  in  by  one  entrance  and  corairig  out  by 
another,  for  he  was  seen  no  more;  and  when  the 
police  had  cleared  the  street,  they  were  unable  to 
track  him. 

That  same  evening  Magloire  Dubourg  received  at 
Source  Josephine  a  visit  from  the  Prefect  of  Police, 
who  came  to  deliver  to  him  the  instructions  of  the 
Government. 

"These  continual  disturbances  must  cease,"  the 
Prefect  said  to  him  with  an  embarrassed  air.  .  .  . 
"Hire  a  hall  if  you  like.     The  authorities  of  course 


152  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

do  not  mean  to  forbid  your  propaganda,  but  we  can 
no  longer  tolerate  these  demonstrations.  My  orders 
in  this  respect  are  definite.  .  .  .  Just  think  of  it, 
with  all  these  ruffians  who  infest  Paris.    .    .    ." 

The  saint  stared  at  him,  two  grey  slits  showing 
between  his  eyelids. 

"  If  you  were  ordered  to  arrest  me,  what  would 
you  do? " 

The  Prefect  looked  up  as  though  accepting  a  chal- 
lenge : 

"Why,  I  would  arrest  you,"  he  answered  dryly. 

Magloire  gently  shook  his  head  : 

"Some  day,"  he  said,  "they  will  order  you  to  do 
so  and  you  will  not  dare." 


CHAPTER  VII 

On  Sundays  the  gramophone  at  the  Cafe  Dumarchey 
played  all  day  long,  with  its  big  horn  turned  towards 
the  crowded  room;  and  the  customers  at  the  tables 
to  make  themselves  heard  had  even  to  yell  louder 
than  on  week-days,  so  that  there  was  a  constant  con- 
fusion of  shouts  and  laughter  and  disputes,  mingled 
with  nasal  selections  from  "Tosca,"  and  the  yodelling 
of  Tyrolese  songs. 

Milot  worked  the  instrument  and  chose  the  records  : 
it  was  his  Sunday  recreation.  When  he  felt  senti- 
mental, when  the  sight  of  a  pretty  girl  had  left  him 
dreaming,  he  spent  the  morning  with  slow  waltzes 
and  romantic  ballads,  taking  up  the  refrains  himself; 
when  he  and  his  friends  had  been  calling  up  memories 
of  the  War  (the  great  slaughter-house  was  Milot's 
name  for  it),  "  Sidi-Brahim "  and  "  Paris-Belfort " 
resounded  at  full  blast;  then,  when  the  second  bell 
ringing  for  Mass  indicated  the  passing  by  of  the  de- 
vout, came  the  turn  of  all  the  questionable  songs. 
The  sacristan,  at  the  doorway,  watched  for  Baptistine 
Pele,  and  directly  he  caught  sight  of  her  black  cloak 
at  the  bend  of  the  avenue,  he  rushed  to  the  instrument 
and  hastily  put  on  the  best  record  of  the  lot:  "My 
Rattlesnake,"  or  "Take  away  your  hand  from  there." 
It  had  become  a  tradition  in  Barlincourt :  Baptistine 
on  her  way  to  church  must  be  greeted  by  the  most 
ribald  ditties  in  the  modem  repertory.  With  eyes 
lowered  and  hands  folded  on  her  prayer-book,  she 
hastened  by;  but  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  she  could 
not  avoid  hearing,  and  she  was  ashamed  to  find  that 
in  the  long  run  she  had  learnt  the  tune  by  heart. 
Milot,  balancing  himself  on  his  sound  leg,  watched 
her  hurrying  past,  and  enjoyed  a  fresh  triumph  on 

153 


154  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

each  occasion.  Then  when  she  had  disappeared, 
he  took  off  the  record,  drained  his  glass  of  white  wine, 
remarked  "See  you  later"  and  went  off  to  take  his 
part  in  the  service.     He  did  not  stay  away  long. 

The  moment  Mass  was  over,  and  he  had  put  his 
chain,  his  staff  and  his  coat  back  in  the  cupboard, 
he  returned  to  the  cafe,  and  while  he  waited  for  some 
customer  to  turn  up  who  would  treat  him  to  an 
"aperitif,"  he  put  on  a  few  more  records. 

In  the  afternoon  the  gramophone  was  carried  into 
the  dancing  hall;  and  the  youth  of  the  country-side 
danced  to  the  music  of  the  Republican  Guards.  The 
girls  came  in  pairs,  arm-in-arm,  red-cheeked,  with 
starched  bodices,  and  the  young  men,  "dressed  to 
kill,"  with  their  hats  on  one  side  and  huge  roses  in 
their  button-holes,  looked  like  temporary  altars. 
Every  Sunday  Petit  Louis,  the  nephew  of  the  Du- 
bourg's  cook,  surreptitiously  brought  Madame  Pele's 
little  serv^ant  as  his  dancing  partner  while  the  widow 
was  at  church. 

Save  for  the  scant  half-hour  of  Vespers,  Milot  did 
not  leave  the  cafe  again  all  day.  Only,  while  he  was 
at  the  dance  he  wished  himself  at  the  bar  chatting 
with  the  men,  and  while  he  was  in  the  cafe,  straining 
his  voice  to  convince  his  audience,  he  still  listened 
with  one  ear  to  the  music,  full  of  jealousy  that  any- 
one but  himself  should  work  the  gramophone.    _ 

"Those  fools  will  end  by  smashing  it." 

And,  leaving  those  who  had  been  arguing  with  him, 
he  would  go  back  to  the  hall  where  perspiring  couples 
were  disporting  themselves,  dancing  waltzes,  schot- 
tishes  and  quadrilles  as  if  all  of  them  were  jigs. 

On  this  particular  Sunday  the  cripple,  for  a  wonder, 
had  not  been  seen  in  the  big  hall.  Ever  since  the 
morning  he  had  been  disputing  with  all  the  customers, 
changing  his  views  from  time  to  time  that  no  oppor- 
tunity for  bawling  should  be  lost.  On  one  point, 
however,  he  did  not  waver,  and  he  never  grew  tired 
of  emphar'pr^g  it : 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  155 

"  Magloire's  done  well  to  choose  Barlincourt :  he'd 
never  find  a  village  where  there  are  so  many  cuckolds 
in  so  few  houses." 

All  the  cafes  in  the  district  were  overflowing  with 
people,  squabbling  in  indignant  groups,  even  at  the 
doorways  of  the  bars.  Since  the  return  of  the  saint 
three  days  earlier,  the  population  had  been  living  in 
a  state  of  effervescence. 

On  the  day  of  his  return  Barlincourt  had  given  him 
a  magnificent  reception;  they  had  cheered  him  and 
embraced  him,  they  had  offered  him  flowers,  a  pro- 
cession had  followed  him  up  to  the  villa,  and  the 
Mayor,  who  wanted  to  do  something  without  com- 
promising himself,  had  sent  the  Deputy-Mayor  to 
offer  the  good  wishes  of  the  municipality.  As  for 
Abbe  Choisy,  he  came  openly,  cordially  holding  out 
his  arms,  for  he  had  understood  nothing  of  the  too 
subtle  insinuations  of  La  Croix,  which  was  the  only 
paper  he  ever  read. 

The  little  town  was  proud  of  the  sudden  celebrity 
which  it  owed  to  the  saint.  Though  Magloire's  in- 
tervention at  the  Chamber  and  his  preachings  in  the 
suburbs  had  gained  him  the  support  of  the  work- 
men at  the  Aubemon  factory,  they  had  roused  mis- 
trust among  the  people  of  means,  the  commercial 
element  and  the  big  farmers;  but  since  they  were 
proud  of  having  as  a  fellow-citizen  this  man  of  whom 
the  whole  world  was  talking,  they  admired  him 
nevertheless,  and  hid  their  resentment.  The  little 
country  place  had  become  the  centre  of  universal 
curiosity. 

At  the  festivals  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  boys 
from  Barlincourt  were  so  much  in  demand  that  they 
began  to  believe  themselves  of  a  different  clay  from 
the  others.  The  presence  of  one  man  had  been 
sufficient  to  increase  the  stature  of  them  aU. 

On  this  fine  Sunday  the  Parisians  had  come  out  in 
fairly  large  numbers,  hoping  to  see  something;  but 
directly  one  of  them  ente.-ed  a  cafe  he  was  met  with 


156  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

suspicious  looks  and  the  conversation  was  carried  on 
in  a  lower  tone,  as  though  it  were  embarrassing  to 
discuss  family  affairs  before  strangers. 

The  men,  excited  by  white  wine  and  other  drinks, 
grew  quarrelsome.  The  Dumarchey  girl,  seated  in  a 
corner  behind  the  coimter,  and  leaving  the  waitress 
to  nm  about  with  bottles  under  her  arm,  cast  black 
looks  at  the  brawlers.  Despite  her  wrinkled  skin  and 
her  lifeless  hair,  she  dreamed  of  a  rich  and  elegant 
society  where  people  reckoned  in  louis  instead  of 
francs,  and  in  her  till  she  kept  secreted  Le  Roman 
d'un  Jeune  Homme  Pauvre." 

"Well,  anyhow,"  someone  cried,  above  the  tumult 
of  voices,  "  one  thing  is  certain  :  since  he  has  been 
here  there  hasn't  been  one  death  in  the  district." 

All  fell  silent,  nonplussed.  They  tried  to  remem- 
ber. ...  It  was  indeed  tnie.  .  .  .  For  weeks 
there  had  not  been  a  funeral,  not  even  a  very  little 
one;  yet  babies  in  the  country  die  quickly  of  the 
treacherous  summer  fever.  The  idea  suddenly  struck 
them  that  a  supernatural  force  was  hovering  over 
them. 

"I  say,"  they  asked  an  old  man,  a  clean-shaven 
peasant,  dressed  in  a  waistcoat  with  sleeves,  "has  this 
ever  happened  before?" 

The  old  man  shook  bis  head : 

"Never,  there's  magic  in  it." 

They  stood  open-mouthed,  too  amazed  even  to 
rejoice.  Milot,  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  on  the  table, 
made  the  glasses  rattle. 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  must  be  cracked  ! "  he  burst 
out.  "It's  a  fact,  if  cuckolds  could  swim  you'd  run 
no  risk  of  getting  drowned.  .  .  .  \Vh3^  do  you 
believe  that  he  will  prevent  you  from  pegging  out  if 
a  lorry  runs  over  your  belly?" 

He  turned  to  the  workmen  : 

"You've  got  no  more  sense  than  a  lot  of  clod- 
hoppers." 

"If    you    3^ell    like    that    you'll    always    be    right," 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  157 

answered  one  of  them.  .  .  .  "We're  no  stupider 
than  you  are,  and  we  don't  believe  in  miracles.  But 
all  the  same,  some  things  are  facts.  Look  at  the 
Trembler,  didn't  he  cure  him?     You  can't  deny  it." 

The  Trembler,  who  was  already  a  little  drunk,  was 
sitting  at  the  end  of  a  bench.  Against  the  wall  he 
had  set  his  placard,  on  which  were  pasted  the  articles 
which  had  appeared  about  him,  his  interview  and 
his  portraits,  and  under  the  table  he  had  pushed  the 
tray  full  of  prophecies  on  gaily-coloiu-ed  paper  that 
he  sold  to  the  people  from  Paris. 

"That  proves  nothing,"  shouted  the  beadle.  .  .  . 
"You've  only  got  to  read  what  the  scientists  said 
about  it.     It  was  his  nerves  that  were  troubling  him." 

The  racket  began  again,  deafening,  punctuated  by 
curses  and  the  sound  of  fists  banged  on  the  table. 
Nothing  but  rubicund  faces  and  glistening  eyes. 
Through  the  cigarette  smoke,  which  was  so  dense 
that  it  scorched  the  eyes,  drinkers  could  be  seen 
standing  up,  holding  their  hands  trumpet-wise  to 
their  mouths  and  shouting  their  orders  through  them. 
The  waitress,  stupefied  by  the  din,  turned  from  side 
to  s'de,  not  knowing  whom  to  serve  first.  Glasses 
rolled  about,  and  were  shivered  to  fragments. 

Everyone  was  talking  without  listening,  simply 
trying  to  shout  louder  than  anyone  else.  They  were 
intoxicated  with  aU  sorts  of  absurd  conjectures.  They 
proposed  to  nominate  the  saint  as  deputy,  or  even 
as  parish  priest  to  begin  with,  in  order  to  keep  him 
in  the  district.  From  time  to  time  the  Trembler 
wanted  to  put  in  a  word,  but  Milot  cut  him  short ; 

"Shut  up,  you  miracle!"  he  flung  out,  looking  at 
him  out  of  the  comer  of  his  eye. 

The  beggar  bent  his  head  submissively.  At  last  the 
bar  seemed  to  clear.  Table  after  table  was  deserted 
and  the  cafe  began  to  empty.  The  talking  grew  less 
loud  and  the  chink  of  coins  was  heard  on  the  counter. 
The  waitress,  taking  advantage  of  the  lull,  began  to 
get  the  lamps  ready.     It  was  time  to  go  to  supper. 

L 


158  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

Lively  groups  passed  by,  breaking  up  as  they 
reached  their  own  doors.  FamiHes  came  back  from 
the  fields,  or  from  some  neighbouring  fete,  carrying 
blue  vases  won  in  the  fair-booths.  The  streets  were 
bathed  in  the  half-light  of  evening. 

And  in  dim  farm-kitchens,  where  supper  was  being 
served,  round  the  oil-cloth  covers  of  workmen's  tables, 
under  the  chandeliers  in  bourgeois  homes,  there  was 
but  one  subject  of  conversation  : 

"Since  he  came  to  the  district  there  has  not  been  a 
single  death.    ..." 

The  King's  Domain  had  resumed  its  air  of  austerity. 
Madame  Dubourg  no  longer  ventured  to  laugh,  the 
menus  were  of  the  simplest,  and  the  piano  remained 
closed. 

The  Evangelist  seemed  to  live  in  isolation  among 
his  relatives,  as  though  in  his  years  of  wandering  he 
had  lost  the  habit  of  seeking  happiness  elsewhere  than 
in  himself.  He  would  sometimes  remain  silent 
throughout  a  whole  meal;  then,  dragging  himself 
with  an  effort  out  of  his  perpetual  dream,  he  would 
join  awkwardly  in  their  conversation,  understanding 
nothing  of  their  tastes,  of  their  desires  or  their  small 
cares. 

In  his  presence  the  Dubourgs  dared  not  discuss  the 
theatre,  nor  anything  which  might  resemble  pleasure; 
the  most  innocuous  subject  of  conversation  suddenly 
appeared  improper,  and  they  even  felt  uncomfortable 
if  they  used  certain  words  in  his  presence.  They 
grew  into  the  habit  of  lowering  their  voices  instinc 
tively,  as  though  in  church.  Yvonne,  having  said 
"What  a  Tartar  !"  when  speaking  of  the  baker's  wife, 
blushed  scarlet,  and  turned  away  her  eyes  before  the 
stem  glance  her  father  bent  on  her.  Thus  meals  went 
by,  edifying  and  dreary. 

WTiat  most  grieved  M.  Francois  Dubourg  was  that 
his  brother  took  so  little  interest  in  his  writings. 
Casually,  as  though  the  matter  were  of  no  importance. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  159 

he  had  laid  some  copies  of  his  successful  books  on  the 
table  by  Magloire's  bedside. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  had  said  jestingly,  "if  one  night 
you  cannot  sleep.    ..." 

But  Magloire  did  not  seem  to  have  even  opened 
them.  One  afternoon,  however,  as  the  novelist  was 
leaving  the  garden  to  go  back  to  his  work,  the  saint 
asked  him  : 

"What  will  be  the  title  of  your  next  book?" 

"Monsiem  de  Cambrelus." 

"  Ah  !     And  what  do  you  explain  in  it  ? " 

The  novelist  smiled  at  the  naive  question  : 

"Why,  I  don't  explain  anything  in  it.  .  .  .  It 
is  the  story  of  the  younger  son  of  a  noble  family,  in 
the  sixteenth  centur}^  who  gets  mixed  up  with  the 
League  and    ..." 

"I  quite  imderstand,"  the  saint  interrupted  gently. 
"It  is  fiction,  an  imaginary  story.  But  what  ideas 
do  you  express  in  it?  What  is  the  conclusion  you 
draw?" 

His  brother  almost  lost  patience  : 

"Why,  there's  no  conclusion,"  he  answered,  a  little 
annoyed.  "It  is  not  my  business  to  defend  any  ideas 
in  a  novel.  It's  not  a  text-book  of  philosophy.  I 
write  to  entertain  people." 

The  saint  nodded  his  head  : 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "To  enter- 
tain.   ..." 

He  remained  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  he  went  on  : 

"You  know  that  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  Frangois. 
Well,  I  have  read  the  books  that  you  left  in  my  room. 
They  didn't  interest  me.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  You 
don't  mind  my  saying  this,  do  you?" 

The  novelist  tried  to  conceal  his  chagrin. 

"Why,  no,  not  at  all.  You  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
reading  novels,  perhaps  you  don't  know.    ..." 

"Yes,  no  doubt  that  is  it,"  the  saint  agreed  eagerly. 
"I  probably  don't  vmderstand.  Stories  don't  pene- 
trate any  more  into  my  old  brain.     But,  you  know, 


i6o  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

it  makes  my  heart  ache  to  see  men  getting  excited 
over  futile  tales,  and  not  giving,  throughout  their 
whole  existence,  one  hour,  one  single  hour  of  reflection, 
to  the  mystery  out  of  which  they  came,  the  mystery 
into  which  they  will  return.  .  .  .  Their  unconscious- 
ness terrifies  me.  ...  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
watching  children  building  a  palace  of  cards  in  a 
burning  house.  God  has  given  them  a  mind,  and 
never  do  they  use  it  to  think  of  Him.  You  have 
intelligence  and  knowledge,  Francois;  why  don't  you 
guide  them  towards  the  truth?  Believe  me,  all  words 
are  vain  which  do  not  help  to  make  life  better.  You 
deceive  men  when  you  only  talk  to  them  of  them- 
selves, vaunting  their  paltry  passions,  exaggerating 
their  mean  gestures.  .  .  .  Man  is  so  blinded  by 
pride  that  he  has  come  to  believe  only  in  himself;  and 
to  help  the  world  to  forget  its  wretchedness  you  do 
nothing  but  shake  rattles." 

Francois  Dubourg,  thoroughly  bored,  scraped  the 
gravel  of  the  path  with  the  point  of  his  shoe  to  keep 
himself  in  countenance,  and  endured  the  lecture.  The 
words  slid  vainly  over  him  like  the  reproaches  of  a 
master  over  the  resigned  head  of  a  schoolboy.  At 
last,  when  his  brother  had  finished,  he  made  his  escape, 
and  on  the  way  up  to  his  study  he  muttered  with 
annoyance, 

"Good  Lord,  what  a  deluge  !  I  don't  need  to  be 
converted  !     He  takes  me  for  a  nigger  ! " 

Then,  throwing  back  the  shutters  which  kept  the 
room  cool  during  lunch-time,  he  saw  the  saint  wending 
his  way  towards  the  kitchen  garden. 

"Good,  now  he's  gone  back  to  his  bees,"  he  said, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  .  .  .  "Adele  is  already 
refusing  to  go  and  pick  anything  for  fear  of  getting 
stung,  and  the  gardener's  complaining.  Well,  it's 
getting  to  be  a  funny  kind  of  house  ! " 

At  the  far  end  of  the  kitchen  garden,  Magloire 
Dubourg  had  indeed  set  up  three  hives,  which  he  had 
made  out  of  a  little  straw,  a  wicker  basket  and  some 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  i6i 

flat  tiles.  Round  them  he  had  planted  thyme,  mint 
and  mignonette,  to  encourage  the  bees  to  come  there 
for  honey,  and  while  he  dug  in  the  garden  they  buzzed 
about  him. 

He  spent  a  part  of  his  days  in  the  garden  because 
he  was  less  conspicuous  there  than  in  the  park,  where 
people  perpetually  came  and  worried  him. 

On  some  days  he  was  not  to  be  seen  till  dinner- 
time, and  his  place  at  the  luncheon  table  remained 
empty.  He  would  start  off,  walking  straight  before 
him,  vi'heresoever  the  road  led  him.  He  was  reported 
to  have  been  seen  preaching  in  the  open  fields,  at  the 
hour  when  the  men,  seated  on  the  ground  around  the 
threshing-machine,  were  eating  their  midday  meal ; 
and  he  had  been  found  haranguing  the  workmen  at 
the  factory-gates. 

At  the  iron-works  of  Montataire,  mounted  on  a  pile 
of  coal-bricks,  he  had  spoken  to  a  gang  of  stokers 
coming  off  duty,  drunk  with  fatigue,  their  hard  faces 
seamed  with  black  wrinkles;  and  the  affair  had  ended 
in  tumult,  with  empty  bottles  being  pulled  out  of 
knapsacks  and  brandished  like  clubs. 

He  invariably  came  back  penniless,  having  parted 
with  his  last  copper;  one  evening,  sitting  down  on 
the  side  of  the  road,  he  had  even  given  his  shoes  to  a 
tramp  whose  bare  feet  were  bleeding.  Sometimes  he 
came  back  with  destitute  people  who  had  to  be  fed 
for  two  or  three  days  and  supplied  with  cast-off  cloth- 
ing. He  would  take  his  meals  with  them  on  the 
terrace,  while  the  dog,  showing  his  teeth,  growled  and 
dragged  at  his  chain. 

Another  time,  he  brought  back  a  labourer  from 
Barlincourt,  who  had  formerly  been  employed  for 
rough  work  at  the  villa  and  had  been  dismissed 
because  once,  when  he  was  drunk,  he  had  insulted  his 
employers  and  had  gone  off,  leaving  his  job  unfinished. 

Mme.  Dubourg  gave  no  sign  of  her  annoyance  at 
seeing  the  man  come  back,  but  when  he  had  gone,  she 
expressed  her  disapproval  to  the  saint. 


i62  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"It  is  true,"  he  admitted,  "he  is  rather  a  scamp, 
but  you  will  see  that  we  shall  end  by  making  a 
respectable  lad  of  him." 

Meanwhile  "the  respectable  lad"  was  doing  no  good 
at  aU.  He  had  smashed  to  atoms  the  bell-glasses 
Etienne  used  for  his  melons,  while  he  was  helping  to 
put  them  in  order;  he  could  not  be  induced  to  clean 
the  bam  thoroi:ghly,  and  whenever  any  member  of 
the  household  passed  by,  he  would  stand  with  his 
head  bent  sulkily,  his  cap  pushed  down  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  whistling  between  his  teeth. 

Magloire  Dubourg  alone  was  able  to  extract  obedience 
from  this  ruffian;  the  labourer  was  positively  afraid 
of  him.  At  every  turn,  the  Evangelist  would  come 
up  to  him  and,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  would 
ask  : 

"Why  do  you  want  to  steal  those  eggs?" 

Or: 

"If  you  upset  the  hives  the  bees  will  follow  you 
and  sting  you  till  you  drop." 

And  each  time,  unfailingly,  he  exposed  some  evil 
thought  in  the  other's  mind.  The  labourer  had  been 
reduced  to  fleeing  from  him  in  terror.  Then  he  was 
seen  no  more;  he  went  about  the  country-side  saying 
that  he  would  not  work  any  longer  at  the  King's 
Domain  because  Magloire  Dubourg  practised  magic 
on  him. 

The  inhabitants,  far  from  being  turned  against  the 
Evangelist  by  this,  were  inclined  to  see  in  the  labomer's 
tales  a  new  proof  of  the  power  of  their  saint.  The 
majority  of  M.  Quatrepomme's  voters — though  they 
were  not  in  the  least  bigoted,  nor  more  foolish  than 
others — ^were  now  convinced  that  Barlincourt  was 
under  the  protection  of  Saint  Magloire  Dubourg  and 
that  they  had  nothing  more  to  fear  from  Fate. 

Moreoyer,  one  indisputable  fact  remained,  and  the 
women,  by  repeating  it  over  and  over  again,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  unsettling  everyone  :  there  were  no  more 
deaths   in    Barlincourt.     There   was   not   even    a   sick 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  163 

person  whose  condition  gave  rise  to  anxiety,  and  old 
Dr.  Rouquette  regarded  this  as  a  personal  triumph. 

"That  fellow  Blum  could  not  get  such  results,  with 
his  stethoscope  and  his  Hun  pulsometer,"  he  reiterated 
as  he  went  his  rounds. 

As  soon  as  people  in  Paris  heard  of  the  state  of 
affairs,  the  pilgrimages  began  again.  Sick  people 
arrived  who  wished  to  live  in  this  land  of  promise, 
and  after  a  few  days  there  was  not  a  vacant  lodging 
in  the  district.  At  Dumarchey's  they  were  taking 
boarders,  and  M.  Quatrepomme,  for  3000  francs,  had 
let  to  an  invalid  woman  a  brick-paved  outhouse,  very 
poorly  furnished,  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  ripening 
his  pears  and  putting  his  potatoes  to  sprout. 

It  was  just  at  that  moment,  at  the  height  of  the 
excitement,  that  old  Moucron,  having  caught  cold  in 
the  rain,  came  in  shivering  and  took  to  his  bed.  His 
son  woiild  willingly  have  let  him  die  without  an  effort 
to  save  him;  but  the  news  of  the  old  man's  illness 
caused  a  sensation  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the 
heir,  spied  on  by  everyone,  was  obliged  to  send  for  the 
doctor.  He  caUed  in  Dr.  Blum,  whom  he  believed 
to  be  the  less  capable  of  the  two. 

The  young  practitioner  left  the  farm  transfigured, 
making  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  satisfaction. 

"It's  all  up  with  him,"  he  declared  to  the  inquisi- 
tive groups  who  were  waiting  for  him  outside.  "The 
left  lung  is  completely  choked.  .  .  .  Expectoration 
very  bad.    .    .    .    He  won't  last  a  week." 

In  an  hour  the  whole  of  Barlincourt  knew  about  it; 
people  were  wrangling  in  the  streets  and  the  saint's 
adherents  were  stricken  with  consternation.  Dr. 
Rouquette,  when  the  information  reached  him,  hurried 
to  the  Moucron  farm. 

"Let  me  have  a  look  at  your  father,"  he  said  to 
young  Moucron,  who  gave  him  but  a  cold  welcome. 
"  He's  an  old  comrade  of  mine ;  I  should  like  to  pull 
him  through.  You  need  not  pay  me  anything,  and  I 
will  supply  the  medicines  into  the  bargain." 


l64  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

He  spent  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  sounding  the 
old  man,  made  him  count  aloud  and  cough,  felt  his 
pulse,  took  his  temperature,  looked  at  his  gums, 
examined  his  handkerchiefs;  and  without  losing  any 
time  he  began  to  put  leeches  on  his  back  and  chest. 
Under  the  glasses,  they  could  be  seen  swelling,  heavy 
with  black  blood,  and  Father  Rouquette,  rubbing  his 
hands,  said : 

"That's  the  disease  coming  out.    ..." 

He  wrote  out  a  long  prescription,  after  having  looked 
at  the  one  his  colleague  had  ordered,  and  taking  great 
care  not  to  make  use  of  a  single  one  of  his  drugs; 
then,  by  way  of  ingratiating  himself  with  the  son,  whom 
he  knew  to  be  greedy,  he  added  a  bottle  of  syrup. 

As  he  came  out,  he  was  surrounded. 

"Well,"  said  he  with  a  broad  smile,  "we  shall  pull 
him  through,  old  Moucron.  ...  A  nice  little  in- 
flammation of  the  lungs,  that  is  nothing.    ..." 

And  he  added  with  a  wink  : 

"Specially  at  Barlincourt,  the  place  where  no  one 
dies." 

The  partisans  of  the  saint  took  heart  again. 

"He  won't  die!"  declared  the  one  group. 

"  He's  done  for  ! "  replied  the  other. 

In  the  streets  people  stopped  one  another  to  ask  for 
news  of  the  sick  man.  The  statements  of  the  two 
doctors  were  canvassed :  Blum's,  to  whom  all  the 
symptoms  were  alarming,  and  Rouquette's,  who  with 
determined  optimism  rejoiced  equally  when  the 
patient  coughed  more  and  when  he  coughed  less. 
Early  in  the  morning  boys  ran  to  the  farm. 

"The  shutters  of  his  room  are  open,"  they  cried, 
hurrying  back  at  full  speed. 

And  thus  people  knew  that  old  Moucron  was  still 
alive.  At  the  Dubourgs'  house,  they  waited  with 
beating  hearts.  Mme.  Dubourg  was  nervous,  Gerard 
more  agitated  than  usual,  and  whenever  the  bell  at 
the  gate  rang,  Yvonne  grew  quite  pale.  Saint  Mag- 
loire  alone  remained  aloof  from  all  the  excitement. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  165 

On  several  occasions,  kno^^ing  that  the  farmer  was 
ill,  he  had  asked  whether  he  was  any  better,  but  he 
had  never  spoken  at  length  about  it.  Whenever  he 
left  the  villa,  urchins  escorted  him — at  a  distance — in 
the  hope  of  witnessing  a  miracle,  but  they  never  got 
any  reward  for  their  pains. 

The  EvangeHst  went  out  walking  as  he  had  done 
in  the  past,  with  no  special  destination  in  view,  way- 
laying passers-by  to  talk  to  them.  At  first  the 
inhabitants  allowed  him  to  accost  them  with  a  sort  of 
emotional  satisfaction,  and  listened  to  him  respectfully; 
but  those  whom  he  had  already  catechised  several 
times  ended  by  avoiding  him  wheii  they  saw  him 
coming.  Thus  Etienne,  the  gardener,  now  fled  to 
the  other  end  of  the  kitchen  garden  directly  he  caught 
sight  of  the  saint. 

"You'd  spend  the  whole  day  doing  nothiiig,  if  you 
let  him  talk,"  he  grunted. 

The  Widow  Pele,  though  she  found  the  ideas  and 
the  ways  of  the  saint  strange,  had,  more  than  anyone 
else,  pursued  him  with  her  attentions,  believing  per- 
haps that  the  piety  they  had  in  common  would  bring 
them  closer  together.  She  questioned  him  imperti- 
nently about  his  past  life,  and  gurgled  with  satisfaction 
when  she  discovered  that  the  Evangelist  was  less  strict 
in  religious  observances  than  she  was  herself. 

Her  son  also  harassed  Magloire  Dubourg,  shaking 
like  a  leaf  at  the  mere  thought  that  he  was  talking  to 
a  saint.  He  was  fascinated  and  thought  of  nothing 
but  becoming  a  missionary  and  getting  chopped  up 
alive  by  savages.  This  simplicity  of  mind  filled  the 
old  man  with  pity. 

"You  must  not  sin  through  excess  of  virtue,  my 
boy,"  he  said  to  him;  "it  is  a  want  of  humility  to 
covet  virtues  which  everyone  admires.  Be  satisfied 
with  being  a  good  man." 

The  big  simpleton  listened,  trembling  in  every  limb, 
not  daring  to  look  him  in  the  face,  for  he  was  always 
afraid  of  committing  a  sin  unawares. 


i66  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

By  the  time  he  was  five  years  old  he  was  already 
being  threatened  with  hell-fire  on  every  occasion, 
with  or  without  reason.  Mme.  Baptistine  Pele  was 
too  unctuous  to  beat  her  son,  except  on  rare  and  pri- 
vate occasions,  but  directly  he  was  guilty  of  the 
smallest  peccadillo — a  dish  too  quickly  seasoned,  an 
errand  badly  done,  a  rent  in  his  breeches,  or  even  less 
— she  flew  into  a  terrible  passion  that  drained  the 
colour  from  her  cheeks. 

"Go  away!"  she  would  gasp  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"  Heartless  boy !  .  .  .  Accursed !  .  .  .  Do  you 
want  to  send  me  to  perdition?  ...  Go  and  ring 
for  Mass  ! " 

And  Josephin  would  go  and  ring. 

The  reason  why  the  widow  gave  him  such  an 
order  was  that  in  the  beginning  these  scenes  used  to 
take  place  in  the  early  morning.  Josephin,  being 
lazy,  was  disinclined  to  get  up,  and  his  mother,  to 
punish  him,  used  to  send  him  to  ring  the  bell  for  Mass 
without  giving  him  any  breakfast.  But  as  time  went 
on,  the  youth,  stupefied  by  these  continual  scoldings, 
always  trembling,  seeing  sins  on  all  sides,  pulled  about 
and  punished,  had  simply  grown  stupid.  At  school 
he  was  no  more  of  a  dulfer  than  other  boys,  but  no 
sooner  was  he  at  home  than  fear  of  his  mother  robbed 
hL*n  of  what  little  sense  he  had,  and  he  could  do 
nothing  right. 

"Go  and  ring  for  Mass  !     Go  and  ring  !" 

Soon  the  widow  took  to  shouting  it  at  all  hours  of 
the  day,  and  the  terrified  choir-boy  would  go  and 
ring  without  disputing  the  order,  whether  it  came 
in  the  middle  of  a  meal  or  after  the  evening  Angelus. 

At  first  the  neighbourhood  had  been  astomided, 
and  Abb6  Choisy  had  protested  against  such  abuse 
of  the  bells ;  but  nothing  could  withstand  the 
devout  widow,  and,  being  annoyed  at  the  inter- 
vention, she  had  made  Josephin  ring  all  the 
harder.  In  the  end  the  parish  grew  accustomed 
to   it,    and   now    when    the    bell    was    hea-d    people 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  167 

simply     remarked     that     Josephin     had     committed 
some  new  blunder. 

When  the  meaning  of  these  inappropriate  peals  was 
explained  to  him,  Saint  Magloire  had  intervened  with 
his  customary  brusqueness,  and  this  had  been  the 
cause  of  the  rupture  between  him  and  the  widow. 

Nowadays  the  latter  contented  herself  with  a  half- 
curtsey  when  she  met  him,  and  she  had  made  the 
ladies  of  the  Society  for  a  Holy  Death  read  a  pious 
leaflet,  the  "Propagator  of  the  three  Ave  Marias,"  in 
which  a  Canon,  who  viTote  over  a  signature  of  three 
stars,  condemned  the  transmigration  of  souls  as  the 
worst  kind  of  monstrosity. 

Yvonne's  uncle  had  been  no  more  tactful  with 
Georges  Aubernon  than  with  the  widow.  The  young 
idler,  who  paid  overmuch  attention  to  his  toilet,  had 
displeased  him  at  once. 

"Then,  do  you  never  do  any  work?"  he  had  asked 
him  point-blank  one  afternoon.  "You  are  wrong. 
He  has  not  earned  his  share  of  Heaven  who  does 
not  reach  the  end  of  the  journey  with  weary 
arms." 

The  young  man  had  been  vexed,  the  Dubourgs  an- 
noyed; but  since  they  had  grown  used  to  the  old  man's 
eccentricities,  M.  Georges  had  not  deserted  the  villa 
for  such  a  trifle.  Still,  as  he  swayed  backwards  and 
forwards  in  his  rocking-chair,  with  his  open  shirt  dis- 
closing his  sunburnt  throat,  pinching  the  tight-stretched 
strings  of  his  racket  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  it  made 
him  uncomfortable  to  feel  the  austere  gaze  of  the  saint 
resting  upon  him. 

Magloire  Dubourg  tackled  him  on  several  further 
occasions.  M.  Georges  led  the  same  useless  and  com- 
pUcated  life  as  his  friends — "The  people  of  my  set," 
he  used  to  say  with  a  fluency  that  dazzled  his  mother 
— and,  like  them,  he  considered  that  he  held  a  superior 
position  in  Society  because  he  did  nothing.  He  was 
always  in  a  hurry,  the  days  were  too  short  for  all  his 
engagements,  and  he  was  to  be  met  on  all  the  roads, 


i68  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

at  the  wheel  of  his  motor-car,  dashing  past  the  mile- 
stones, skimming  round  the  turnings,  tooting  im- 
patiently at  the  level  crossings;  and  Yvonne's  heart 
began  to  beat  when  she  recognised  the  sound  of  his 
horn  in  the  distance. 

"How  can  you  be  satisfied  with  such  an  existence?" 
asked  the  saint  in  naive  amazement.  "Does  it  not 
humiliate  you  to  think  that  others  are  paying  for  your 
luxuries,  earning  your  bread  for  you  ? " 

These  constant  remarks  ended  by  exasperating 
Georges  Aubemon,  who  did  not  dare  to  make  any 
reply;   and  his  visits  became  less  frequent. 

"Frankly,"  said  the  novelist  to  his  brother,  "you 
would  do  better  to  leave  that  boy  alone.  He  may  well 
get  some  pleasure  out  of  life,  his  father  has  slaved 
hard  enough." 

This  false  reasoning  had  irritated  the  saint  still 
further. 

"The  son,  in  the  eyes  of  God,  cannot  pay  his  father's 
debts,  but  neither  will  he  be  able  to  pay  with  his 
father's  money." 

At  the  first  opportunity  he  had  attacked  the  young 
man  with  fresh  reproaches,  and  aft^"  that  young 
Aubernon,  feeling  humiliated,  only  showed  himself  at  the 
King's  Domain  in  the  company  of  his  parents.  The 
latter,  who  suspected  nothing,  continued  to  pay  every 
courtesy  to  the  saint ;  they  were  verv  proud  to  intro- 
duce him  to  friends  who  came  to  Banincourt  for  that 
special  purpose,  and  but  Icr  this  attraction  very  few 
people  would  have  called  on  them. 

Since  the  illness  of  old  Moucron,  this  curiosity  had 
increased  still  further,  and  every  day  people  telephoned 
from  Paris  to  the  manufacturers  to  ask  for  the  latest 
news. 

The  news,  indeed,  was  not  good.  Young  Moucron, 
who  did  not  want  to  waste  such  costly  drugs,  dosed  his 
father  equally  with  the  remedies  of  Dr.  Blum  or  Dr. 
Rouquette;  and  the  old  man,  stuffed  with  iodine, 
emetics,  calomel  and  opium,  only  woke  up  from  his 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  169 

heaw  sleep  when  a  fit  of  coughing  or  an  attack  of 
delirmm  roused  him. 

Barhncourt  followed  the  course  of  the  sick  man's 
disease  as  though  he  hadpbeen  a  personage  of  impor- 
tance; in  his  gasping  breath  the  old  fellow  held  the 
whole  popularity  of  the  saint. 

From  time  to  time,  as  night  was  falling,  the  local 
correspondent  of  the  National  or  the  Frangais  might 
be  seen  riding  up  on  his  bicycle  to  inquire  at  the 
farm  whether  "  it  was  over  "  ;  but  old  Moucron, 
hard  and  dry  as  an  old  vine,  would  not  let  himself 
die. 

The  peasants,  among  themselves,  talked  of  it  in 
ambiguous  terms. 

"  Young  Moucron  must  find  it  hard  to  keep  still." 

"If  only  the  saint  does  not  take  a  hand,  he's  bound 
to  get  his  six  acres." 

"And  this  time  he  won't  have  to  beat  the  old  man 
to  make  him  hand  over  his  property." 

Then  they  would  all  laugh,  displaying  their  rustic 
amusement,  as  rough  as  their  own  hands. 

When  old  Moucron  suddenly  ceased  to  expectorate. 
Dr.  Blum  foretold  the  end. 

"Internal  secretion,"  he  told  his  patients  as  he  went 
his  rounds.  "It's  very  serious.  That  aU  accumulates 
in  the  bronchial  tubes;  the  poor  old  chap  wiU  die  of 
suffocation.     I  shall  begin  to  giwe  him  injections." 

Dr.  Rouquette  also  noticed  that  the  patient  was 
coughing  less  and  that  he  was  no  longer  expectorating; 
but  as  his  general  condition  was  no  worse  in  other 
respects,  he  felt  no  anxiety,  or  at  least  he  showed  none. 

Next  day,  however,  old  Moucron  was  in  a  high  fever 
and  shouting  so  loud  that  he  could  be  heard  from  the 
road.  He  wanted  to  get  up,  refused  to  take  any  food, 
and  in  a  whining  voice  jabbered  meaningless  phrases. 
Dr.  Rouquette,  who  was  as  obstinate  as  his  own 
peasants,  was  determined  not  to  acknowledge  that  his 
rival  was  in  the  right,  and  insisted  that  these 
symptoms  were  a  good  sign  rather  than  otherwise. 


170  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"It  is  perfectly  normal,"  he  explained  to  the  people 
who  had  collected  round  his  carriage.  "It  is  a  result 
of  peripneumonic  fever;  we  call  it  s^Tnpathetic  deli- 
rium. Dr.  Blum's  professors  may  have  changed  the 
name  but  they  haven't  changed  the  disease.  .  .  . 
Well,  good-bye,  my  friends.    .    .    ." 

In  reality,  however,  the  doctor  was  afraid  of  a  stroke. 
He  trusted  far  more  to  his  old  practitioner's  instinct 
than  to  his  science;  and  when,  as  he  entered  the  far- 
mer's room,  he  had  sniffed  the  odour  of  acetate  and 
pippins  that  he  had  so  often  smelt  before,  he  made  a 
grimace,  for  he  knew  what  to  expect. 

"It  smells  of  death.     He  is  done  for." 

One  person  alone  might  now  save  old  Moucron : 
Saint  Magloire.  The  doctor  did  not  hesitate,  if  neces- 
sary he  would  have  gone  to  fetch  the  Bishop,  the  Pope, 
the  Grand  Lama,  to  save  the  old  man's  life  and  dis- 
credit Dr.  Blum.  A  moment  later  he  was  at  the  King's 
Domain,  and,  not  shrinking  from  a  lie,  he  told  the 
saint  that  old  Moucron  was  at  the  point  of  death  and 
was  asking  for  him. 

"Has  he  received  the  Sacraments?"  asked  the 
Evangelist  anxiously. 

"No,  he  doesn't  want  to  give  himself  up  for  lost, 
you  see.  He  hopes,  we  hope  that  if  you  would  .  .  . 
your  presence.    .    .    ." 

Then,  finding  no  way  out,  Dr.  Rouquette  finished 
abruptly  with  :    "  In  short,  science  hands  him  over  to 

you." 

•  ••••* 

So  long  as  there  was  daylight  in  his  room,  old 
Moucron  remained  in  a  painless  stupor.  Between  the 
bouts  of  fever,  his  mind  followed  the  quiet  activity 
of  the  road,  the  passing  of  carts,  whose  sheaves 
brushed  the  walls  of  his  house,  the  whistles  of  the 
factory,  the  hurried  trot  of  sheep,  the  rattle  of 
threshing-machines  in  the  bam.  The  last  familiar 
sound  was  the  return  of  the  cattle,  coming  home  from 
the  pastures.    Then  night  came  on  and  he  began  to 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  171 

toss  in  his  bed.  Trembling,  he  entered  the  realm  of 
delirium. 

Sick  people  know  :  death  hides  in  shadowy  corners. 
Some  watch  for  it,  their  eyes  wide  with  fear;  others, 
more  cowardly,  keep  their  eyes  closed,  that  they  may 
not  see  it  coming.  The  fearful  soul  listens,  and  after 
a  moment  it  hears.  .  .  .  Not  even  a  sound;  a 
silence  that  moves.  A  garment  trailing,  the  floor 
creaking;  it  must  be  coming  out  of  its  comer  and 
approaching  the  bed.  .  .  .  You  can  feel  it  there, 
quite  near.  .  .  .  The  silent  watcher  blows  his  icy 
breath  over  the  dying  man,  who  shrinks  away,  rfis 
heart  beats  with  great  throbs,  but  he  does  not  stir, 
he  does  not  call  out,  he  checks  by  main  force  the 
rattle  in  his  throat,  so  as  not  to  tempt  it.  He  wants 
to  make  Death  believe  that  he  is  asleep.    .    .    . 

One  more  instant  of  terrified  waiting,  then  he  opens 
his  eyes,  cautiously.  He  looks.  .  .  .  No,  there  is 
nothing,  but  the  darkness.  The  room  is  empty.  All 
at  once,  with  nerves  xmstnmg,  the  body  relapses  into 
titter  exhaustion;  the  stifled  rattle  once  more  seizes 
the  sick  man  by  the  throat,  and  the  long  nightmare 
of  the  darkness  begins.    .    .    . 

Old  Moucron  struggled  till  the  last  moment-  With 
anxious  eyes  he  watched  the  daylight  vanishing 
through  the  window  with  its  coarse  net  curtains.  It 
seemed  as  though  hfe  itself  left  him  as  light  faded. 
The  fear  of  death  caught  hold  of  him  at  last. 

"Anatole,  a  candle,"  he  asked. 

But  the  yoimg  man,  who  knew  that  his  father  was 
afraid  in  the  darkness,  brought  nothing.  The  voice 
pleaded  with  him : 

"A  candle,  Anatole." 

The  other  made  no  reply.  In  the  living-room  the 
noise  of  the  soup-spoon  and  the  gvirgle  of  wine  being 
poured  out  could  be  heard. 

The  old  farmer  remembered  that,  on  a  by-gone  day, 
it  had  been  his  turn  to  eat  in  the  living-room,  while 
his  father  moaned  in  this  same  bed.     The  shaft  of  a 


172  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

dray  had  crushed  the  old  man's  chest,  and  he  had 
struggled  for  more  than  a  fortnight  before  he  died. 
Now,  in  his  delirium,  it  was  towards  himself  that  the 
dray  rolled,  and  it  was  Anatole  who  was  whipping  up 
the  horses.  He  tried  to  escape,  but  he  could  not. 
Then,  suddenly,  everything  changed.  Madame  Pele, 
wearing  a  cassock,  took  him  to  dance  at  Dumarchey's, 
.  .  .  The  blood  was  pounding  so  hard  in  his  temples 
that  he  seemed  to  hear  the  bells.     He  thought  : 

"If  I  can  only  stop  seeing  the  waggon  I  shall  be 
saved." 

But  it  was  useless,  the  dray  always  came  back;  it 
broke  right  through  the  red  wall  of  his  nightmare,  and 
Saint  Magloire  did  not  dare  to  come  near  him  because 
he  was  afraid  of  the  horses. 

"  CaU  the  saint,  call  the  saint ! "  he  gasped 
urgently,  his  throat  rattling. 

In  the  living-room,  the  son  went  on  placidly  with 
his  dinner 

When  the  farmer,  after  his  bout  of  fever,  found 
himself  perspiring  between  his  drenched  sheets,  he 
gazed  at  the  thread  of  light  beneath  the  door,  and  that 
calmed  him.  At  such  moments  the  thought  of  death 
no  longer  alarmed  him.     He  waited  for  it.    .    .    . 

Despondently,  he  let  his  thoughts  wander.  After  all, 
how  quickly  life  has  passed  !  Youth  is  stiU  so  near, 
it  seems  as  though  one  could  touch  one's  memories 
just  by  stretching  out  a  hand.  When  the  first  of 
his  comrades  had  been  borne  to  the  cemetery,  the 
men  of  his  own  age  had  come  back  in  a  troop,  their 
coats  over  their  arms,  telling  stories  of  him  who  would 
never  return.  Then,  year  by  year,  they  had  grown 
fewer  :  no  more  than  eight,  no  more  than  seven,  no 
more  than  six.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  his  turn  now. 
.    .    .    But  then,  why  not  Mathieu's? 

A  violent  fit  of  coughing  shook  him.  A  murderous 
knee  crushed  his  chest,  and  he  relapsed  into  deliriuin, 
bis  head  on  fire. 

'  Anatole  t    Anatole  I  ** 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  173 

Young  Moucron  came  at  last.  The  old  man  did  not 
look  at  him;  he  no  longer  recognised  an^^thing.  With 
his  mouth  drawn  to  one  side,  he  lay  at  the  point  of 
death.  On  his  white  tongue  there  was  a  curious  spot 
which  puzzled  Anatole.  Leaning  over  the  djdng  man 
he  stretched  out  his  big  hand  and  tried  to  rub  the  spot 
away,  but  it  would  not  come  off. 

To  save  trouble,  he  had  dressed  his  father  in  a  clean 
shirt,  for,  once  dead,  the  body  stiffens  and  is  difficult 
to  move.  The  old  man  was  scratching  the  sheet  with 
his  earth-stained  hands. 

"He  is  going,"  the  son  observed  calmly.  "There 
is  nothing  to  do  but  wait." 

He  went  back  to  the  living-room  to  get  everything 
ready.  He  poured  a  little  holy  water  into  a  saucer — 
the  old  man  always  kept  some  in  a  bottle,  to  sprinkle 
his  farm  with  in  case  of  a  storm — took  from  behind 
the  calendar  the  piece  of  dried  box  which  was  changed 
every  year  on  Palm  Sunda}^  then  set  about  choosing 
a  sheet  for  the  burial.  He  took  them  all  out,  one 
after  the  other,  but  could  not  find  what  he  wanted. 

"That  one's  still  good.  .  .  ,  So's  that,  with  a 
patch.     It's  all  pure  linen." 

On  all  fours,  he  rummaged  to  the  bottom  of  the 
cupboard,  and  the  candle,  set  on  the  red-tiled  floor, 
threw  its  full  light  on  his  fiat  face,  covered  with  coarse 
hair.  At  last  he  brought  out  some  yellowed  sheeting, 
carefully  folded,  worn  by  washing  and  made  out  of 
pieces.  Having  unfolded  it,  he  measured  it  on  his 
arm.     With  a  grimace  he  muttered  : 

"My  word  !     It  will  be  rather  a  tight  fit.    .    .    ." 

He  was  kneeling  there,  irresolute,  when  the  dog  in 
the  courtyard  began  to  bark.  He  heard  a  step  ap- 
proaching, then  a  hand  lifted  the  latch.  Anatole, 
grumbling,  rose  and  drew  back  the  bolt,  wondering 
who  could  be  coming  so  late  at  night. 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  he  cried  as  soon  as  he  re- 
cognised the  visitor. 

And  all  at  once,  uistinctively,  he  half  pushed  the 

M 


174  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

door  back,  barring  the  opening  with  his  outstretched 
arm.     It  was  the  saint. 

"My  father's  not  well,"  the  peasant  went  on,  "he 
mustn't  be  disturbed,  the  doctor  said  so." 

The  Evangelist  took  him  by  the  wrist  and  lowered 
his  arm  without  effort. 

"It  was  Dr.  Rouquette  who  sent  me,"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  see  your  father." 

And  he  passed  in.  His  outline  stood  out,  massive, 
against  the  half-light  of  the  little  courtyard,  like  St. 
Christopher  the  ferryman  upon  stained-glassed  windows. 
The  peasant  stepped  aside  and  eyed  him  furtively. 

"If  you've  come  for  the  Extreme  Unction,"  he 
stammered,  "  there's  no  hurry.  Father's  nowhere 
near  dying,  certainly  not." 

The  wan  light  from  outside  groped  along  the  walls, 
touching  a  copper  pan,  the  polished  comer  of  an  old 
piece  of  furniture,  the  big  calendar.  In  a  dark  corner, 
a  fragment  of  mirror  dreamed,  with  dimmed  glance. 
Upstairs,  in  the  garret,  the  pigeons  could  be  heard 
hopping  about.  And  in  the  next  room,  the  rattling 
breath  of  the  old  man. 

"You  hear  how  soundly  he's  sleeping,"  said  Anatole 
in  a  lowered  voice. 

Shuffling  along  in  the  clogs,  he  went  towards  the 
room,  to  shut  the  door. 

"Let  it  be,"  said  Saint  Magloire  imperiously. 

Moucron  dared  not  refuse,  but,  standing  between 
his  table  and  the  open  chest,  he  barred  the  way.  His 
violently  beating  heart  nearly  jumped  out  of  his  breast. 

"The  doctor  has  given  orders  that  he  is  not  to  be 
tired,"  he  grumbled.  "I've  just  given  him  his 
draught.    ...    He  must  be  left  to  sleep." 

The  Evangelist,  without  replying,  took  up  the  candle 
and  carne  forward.  The  farmer  clenched  his  fists,  his 
head  bent  low  full  of  obstinacy. 

"What  d'you  want,  any  way?"  he  asked  furiously, 
in  a  choking  voice.  "This  is  no  time  to  come  and  see 
sick  people ! " 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  175 

And,  stepping  backward  a  couple  of  paces,  he 
abruptly  pulled  the  door  to.  Magloire  Ehibonrg, 
holding  the  candle  aloft,  said  simply  : 

"You  are  afraid,  eh?" 

Anatole  remained  with  his  head  lowered,  to  escape 
from  the  saint's  glance.     An  ox  at  rest. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  but  you've  only 
got  to  call  again;    to-morrow  there  will  be   daylight." 

The  old  man  watched  him  without  repl^ong,  and 
his  sUence  alarmed  the  peasant,  who  held  his  peace, 
his  thoughts  in  confusion. 

Through  the  open  door  the  great  silence  of  the  fields 
seemed  to  enter,  haunted  with  furtive  noises,  the  rust- 
ling of  trees  and  the  distant  barking  of   dogs. 

"Do  you  hear?"  asked  the  saint,  his  face  close  to 
Anatole's. 

No,  he  could  hear  nothing.  The  pigeons,  a  rattling 
breath,  furniture  creaking. 

"Your  house  that  is  watching  you,  all  the  things 
that  are  spying  on  you,  don't  you  hear  them?  The 
old  furniture  that  witnessed  your  birth,  the  clock 
where  your  father  notched  your  height  as  you  grew 
bigger.  .  .  .  Your  turn  will  come  too,  to  die  in 
the  old  house.  .  .  .  Listen,  it  will  creak  as  it  is 
doing  to-night.    ..." 

Yoimg  Moucron  shook  hmiself,  blazing  up  into  a 
passion. 

"I  am  not  accountable  to  anyone,"  he  said,  raising 
his  head,  "and  I  tell  you  once  for  all  you  have  no 
business  here." 

For  a  moment  both  were  silent.  The  breathing  of 
the  old  man  filled  the  dark  house,  and  the  dog,  in  the 
courtyard,  began  to  howl. 

"Come,  let  me  pass,"  the  saint  commanded. 

This  time  the  young  man  burst  out : 

"What,"  he  said   in  a  hoarse  voice,    "you  want  to 
cure   him?      Well,   that's   the    doctor's    business,   not 
yours.     I  tell  you,  you  shall  not  go  in." 
"I  shaU  go  in." 


176  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

And  Magloire  Dubourg  pushed  him  back.  Then 
Anatole  suddenly  seized  his  cudgel  and  planted  him- 
self in  a  threatening  attitude  in  front  of  the  door. 

"I'm  in  my  own  house  and  you  shall  not  go  any 
farther,"  he  shouted.  "What  right  have  you  to  come 
and  worry  the  old  man  ? " 

The  saint,  without  replying,  took  him  by  the  arm 
and,  sturdy  though  he  was,  the  peasant  felt  himself 
slipping  down  agamst  the  closed  door,  all  his  strength 
gone. 

"You  have  no  right,"  he  said  in  a  whining  voice; 
"I'll  complain  to  the  police,  I'll  say  you  assaulted 
me. 

Magloire  Dubourg  was  already  in  the  bedroom.  He 
had  set  down  the  candle  on  the  bed-table,  and  had 
taken  the  icy  hand  of  the  dying  man  between  his  own. 
Over  his  shoulder  the  son  watched  him  anxiously 
with  rancorous  eyes,  sawing  the  air  with  his  helpless 
hands. 

"He's  going  to  heal  him,"  he  thought  in  desperation. 

But  the  rattling  breath  continued,  and  the  left  hand 
of  the  sick  man  went  on  stroking  the  sheet  in  a  dying 
caress.  At  last  the  saint  stood  erect  again,  and  in 
spite  of  himself  Anatole  heaved  a  sigh. 

On  the  damp  forehead,  which  was  already  cold, 
Magloire  Dubourg  traced  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  then 
he  went  back  into  the  living-room,  leaving  the  candle 
near  the  bed.  Young  Moucron  shut  the  door  of  the 
lighted  room  without  thinking,  and  they  found  them- 
selves suddenly  in  darkness. 

Anatole  at  once  drew  back  terror-stricken.  Before 
him,  on  a  level  with  his  face,  two  eyes  gleamed,  two 
terrible,  phantom  eyes.  .  .  .  He  flung  up  his  arm 
to  protect  himself,  like  a  boy.  Then,  terrified  by  the 
movement,  the  cat,  which  was  perched  on  the  cup- 
board, jumped  down,  fell  on  the  chair,  and  fled.  They 
had  been  her  eyes. 

The  young  man  was  still  trembling  on  his  bandy 
legs.     But  by  degrees  the  beating  of  his  agitated  heart 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  177 

calmed  down.  Very  softly,  in  the  low  voice  of  the 
confessional,  the  saint  said  : 

"WTiy  should  I  have  prolonged  his  span  of  life? 
Tell  me  that.  To  expose  him  to  your  hatred?  To 
make  him  suffer  longer  ? " 

Moucron  listened  with  indifference  to  his  words. 
He  was  no  longer  afraid.  He  stood  there  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  swaying  to  and  fro. 

"All  the  same,  you've  got  a  wrong  idea  of  things," 
he  said.  "We  got  on  all  right  together,  the  old  man 
and  I." 

On  the  threshold  the  Evangelist  turned  round  for  the 
last  time  : 

"  You  are  a  parricide  at  heart !  ...  In  another 
life  the  black  veil  will  dim  your  eyes,  and  it 
will  be  sorrow  itself  that  will  cut  your  throat. 
Farewell ! " 

He  went  away  in  the  direction  of  the  Presbytery, 
and  for  a  moment  Moucron  looked  at  his  dog,  which 
was  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard,  howling  at 
Death. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  over?"  he  said. 

He  went  back  into  the  room.     The  death-rattle  had 

ceased. 

•  •••••• 

Mme.  Baptistine  Pele  was  hastening  along  the  Rue 
de  Verdun;  under  her  arm  she  carried  something  long, 
wrapped  in  a  newspaper.  Tradesmen  opening  their 
shops  looked  at  her,  amazed. 

"There  you  are!  Baptistine  is  taking  the  funeral 
taper  to  Moucron.    ..." 

As  soon  as  it  woke  up,  Barlincourt  heard  of  the 
news  :  old  Moucron  had  passed  away.  The  people  of 
the  neighbourhood  were  so  used  to  seeing  the  widow 
hurrying  to  every  death-bed,  with  an  artificial  air  of 
consternation  and  her  long  stick  of  wax  under  her 
arm,  that  instead  of  saying  that  a  sick  man  was  grow- 
ing worse  it  had  become  the  custom  to  announce  : 

"Baptistine  will  soon  be  taking  him  her  taper." 


178  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

She  scented  corpses  with  the  instinct  of  a  vulture, 
and  in  some  unknown  way  she  always  managed  to  be 
the  first  to  hear  when  anyone  was  dead  or  dying. 
Weeks  had  passed  since  she  had  been  seen  with  her 
taper,  and  when  people  caught  sight  of  her  on  that 
morning  there  was  a  general  feeling  of  depression. 
Death  had  been  stronger  than  the  saint. 

The  pious  widow  pursued  her  way  indifferently, 
rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at  the  defeat  of  the 
Evangelist.  Besides,  she  looked  on  births  and  deaths 
with  the  same  dry  eye,  and  derived  all  her  joy  from 
celestial  calculations.  Near  the  post  office  she  en- 
countered M.  Quatrepomme's  tenant,  who  was  coming 
back  from  six  o'clock  Mass.  The  invalid  was  walking 
with  the  aid  of  a  stick,  having  acquired  new  pains  in 
the  damp  store-house  which  the  Mayor  had  rented 
to  her  as  a  summer  residence. 

"Where  are  you  off  to,  dear  lady?" 

"To  say  the  prayers  for  the  dead  at  old  Moucron's," 
whispered  the  widow. 

Tho  other  woman  tottered  and  turned  pale. 

"What,  is  he  dead?" 

She  felt  as  though  her  heart  had  suddenly  grown 
heavier  and  would  cease  to  beat,  then  she  would  fall 
down  there  on  the  spot  and  never  rise  again. 

"But  what  about  the  saint?  .  .  .  The  miracles ? " 
she  stammered. 

Mme.  Pele  smiled  maliciously. 

"The  samt,  the  saint,"  she  said  in  a  strange  tone. 
"To  begin  with,  he  is  not  a  saint.  No  one  can  be  a 
saint  in  his  life-time.     It  cannot  be  done.    ..." 

"But  what  about  us  sick  people?"  moaned  the 
invalid. 

"In  your  place,"  the  widow  advised  her,  "I  should 
go  to  Lourdes.  At  least  that  is  weU-established,  there 
are  proofs,  the  Holy  Father  has  recognised  the 
miracles.  Whereas  this  Magloire  ...  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  have  always  mistrusted  him.  .  .  .  Think 
of  it,  a  man  whose  brother  writes  abominable  stories 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  179 

in  irreligious  papers.  And  besides,  he's  really  a 
heretic,  it's  quite  possible  he  may  be  excommunicated 
some  day.    ..." 

The  invalid  listened  to  her  railing  in  silence,  her 
back  bowed,  her  eyes  dulled. 

"Come,  you  must  pull  yourself  together,"  Mme. 
Pele  said  to  her.  "Look  here,  come  with  me  and 
say  the  prayers  for  old  Moucron." 

They  trotted  along  together,  and,  with  tapping 
stick  and  black  gowns  and  the  long  covered  taper, 
they  looked  like  two  wicked  fairies  in  search  of  some 
evil  prank. 

The  farmers  going  down  to  the  fields  mid  the  ringing 
of  their  iron  harrows,  the  housewives  chattering  round 
the  pump,  the  workmen  from  Aubernon's  as  they 
walked  by  in  batches,  aU  gathered  to  discuss  the  bad 
news;  and  the  tolling  of  the  death-bell  made  a  deep 
impression  on  them.  Old  Moucron,  in  breathing  his 
last,  had  put  them  all  back  into  the  hands  of  Destiny; 
at  one  blow  the  inhabitants  of  Barlincourt  would  lose 
all  their  prestige.  It  was  the  end  of  a  beautiful 
dream.    .    .    . 

No  one  thought  of  the  old  farmer,  whose  liberated 
spirit  still  hovered  in  the  blue  smoke  of  the  houses, 
unable  to  detach  itself  so  soon  from  the  old  familiar 
roofs.  What  interested  them  was  their  own  fate, 
their  return  to  the  inevitable  law.  Some  of  the  old 
men,  frowning,  reckoned  that  they  already  had  more 
friends  among  the  dead  than  among  the  living. 
The  younger  ones,  care-free,  wrangled  in  the  farm- 
yards. 

Only  Sairt  Magloire  thought  about  the  dead  man, 
as  he  let  the  big  beads  of  the  rosary  slip  through  his 
fingers.  He  seemed  to  be  following  him  on  that 
supreme  journey.    .    .    . 

The  old  man,  forgotten,  roamed  sadly  through  the 
streets,  glueing  his  invisible  countenance  to  the 
windows  of  the  farms.  The  beasts  scented  him,  the 
dogs   whining   in   their   kennels,    scattered  partridges 


i8o  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

calling  one  another  in  the  stubble.  ...  It  may 
be  that  he  was  waiting  for  a  regret,  a  single  tear, 
before  going  on  his  way.  ...  It  is  so  hard  to  go 
away  for  good,  to  leave  the  little  acre  which  has  held 
one's  happiness.    .    .    . 

He  was  alone  already,  in  the  vast  unknown  of  the 
world,  and  without  a  thought  to  hold  him,  with  no 
faithful  heart  to  shelter  him,  he  felt  himself  disappear- 
ing, evaporating,  like  the  mist  of  a  pool.  To  be 
nothing  more,  not  even  a  memory.    .    ,    . 

There  can  be  no  resistance.  .  .  .  The  soul  melts 
in  the  light.  It  takes  flight  with  the  wind.  ...  A 
rustling  in  the  lime-trees,  a  slamming  door,  a  weather- 
vane  creaking.  Then,  nothing  more.  .  .  .  High 
up  in  the  bright  sky,  where  swallows  tie  and  untie  the 
slender  black  ribbon  of  their  flight.    .    .    . 

The  tale  goes  that  it  was  a  baker  in  Barlincourt, 
on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  who  hissed  for  the  first  time 
as  he  passed  in  front  of  the  King's  Domain.  The 
crowd  was  at  once  electrified.  They  began  to  shout, 
some  for,  some  against,  and  the  procession  entered 
the  cemetery  in  confusion.  A  few  old  peasants  and 
women  in  mourning  alone  remained  round  the  grave 
to  listen  to  the  prayers,  while  the  rest  of  the  mourners 
quarrelled  in  the  pathways  of  the  cemetery.  M. 
Quatrepomme,  seeing  that  things  were  going  badly, 
made  himself  scarce  before  the  end,  and  hastened 
home,  ready  to  go  up  and  hide  himself  in  the  gaiTet 
in  case  he  should  be  needed. 

In  front  of  the  villa,  people  were  squabbling, 
always  egged  on  by  the  baker. 

"If  he  had  had  any  heart,  he  would  have  come 
to  the  funeral,  this  wonderful  saint,"  cried  the  fanatic. 
"Was  it  not  the  proper  thing  for  him  to  do,  after  he 
had  let  the  poor  old  chap  die?" 

Soon  there  were  more  than  fifty  of  them,  mostly 
farmer  lads,  with  a  few  shopkeepers,  vociferating  at 
the  gate;  and  when  Milot  passed  by  with  Abb6  Choisy, 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  i8i 

irreverently  swinging  the  funeral  holy-water  vessel, 
he  gave  them  a  sly  grin  of  encouragement  intended 
to  mean  :  "Go  ahead  !  " 

However,  they  soon  grew  tired.  And  besides, 
although  they  would  not  admit  it,  they  were  afraid 
the  saint  might  recognise  them,  and  the  demonstration 
ended  at  the  public-house. 

When  the  Aubernon  workmen,  as  they  came  out  of 
the  factory,  heard  what  had  happened,  they  collected 
together  and  started  a  fresh  disturbance;  but  this 
time  they  cheered  the  saint.  By  way  of  a  beginning, 
the  demonstrators  had  smashed  in  the  windows  ol 
Begin  the  baker,  the  worst  reactionary  in  the  district; 
then,  forming  up  in  marching  order,  they  went  and 
shouted  outside  the  windows  of  the  Mayor,  who  was 
nowhere  to  be  found,  and  they  were  wending  their 
way  tumultuously  towards  the  dwelling  of  M.  Auber- 
non, pompously  known  as  the  chateau,  on  account  of 
a  wretched  little  turret  that  adorned  it,  when  Saint 
Magloire  joined  them. 

He  made  a  speech  to  them  and,  not  without 
difficulty,  persuaded  them  to  go  home,  putting  him- 
self at  the  head  of  the  column. 

They  almost  all  lived  in  the  Workmen's  Dwellings, 
known  as  the  Cite,  on  the  outskirts  of  Barlincourt. 
Sixty  small  brick  houses  stood  there  in  rows,  with 
grey  gardens,  all  alike,  in  which  sunflowers  bloomed. 
These  barracks,  which  had  cost  M.  Aubernon  a  good 
deal  of  money,  had  earned  him  the  reputation  of  a 
philanthropist,  at  any  rate  outside  his  factory.  He 
let  the  houses  at  a  moderate  rent,  but  only  by  the 
week;  so  that  a  workman  who  was  dismissed  on  a 
Saturday  had  to  turn  out  of  workshop  and  home 
alike  at  the  same  time. 

"In  this  way,"  said  the  manufacturer,  "I  keep  them 
in  hand." 

There  was  not  a  gentleman  in  Barlincourt  who  would 
have  ventured  into  the  Cite,  even  in  broad  daylight. 
The  continual  disputes,   which  could  be  heard  from 


i82  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

the  high  road,  the  endless  stories  of  fights  there,  had 
created  a  legend  that  represented  the  Aubernon 
Dwellings  as  a  sort  of  anarchists'  lair,  and  by  way  of 
keeping  up  this  reputation,  a  band  of  urchins,  clad 
in  frocks,  used  to  play  all  day  in  front  of  the  barrier, 
besmeared  and  dirty,  hurling  insults  at  well-dressed 
children,  and  practising,  throwing  stones  at  them. 

This  was  the  fust  time  Saint  Magloire  had  been 
inside  the  place. 

He  spoke  first  on  the  site  of  a  house  that  was  in 
course  of  construction,  with  the  whole  multitude 
around  him;  then,  when  the  dinner-hour  came,  he 
told  them  to  disperse,  and  he  went  from  house  to 
house,  preaching  with  the  utmost  simplicity  under 
each  roof.  These  poor  people  found  nothing  to  say 
to  him  in  welcome,  they  were  too  much  moved.  It 
troubled  them  to  see  this  celebrated  man  sitting  down 
familiarly  imder  their  lamp  and  talking  for  them  alone. 
With  beating  hearts,  they  listened  to  him.  Outside, 
all  along  the  hedge,  the  others  were  eagerly  trying  to 
hear. 

"Why  do  they  reproach  me  with  not  having  pro- 
longed that  poor  man's  life?"  asked  the  Evangelist. 
"He  who  would  perform  such  a  miracle  as  that  would 
be  a  monster,  he  would  be  Antichrist.  ,  .  .  Would 
it  be  fair,  I  ask  you,  that  to  the  end  of  Time  the 
rich  man,  made  immortal,  should  enjoy  the  same 
happiness,  while  the  poor  man  remained  always 
chained  to  his  misery?  On  the  contrary.  Death  should 
be  blessed,  it  is  the  revenge  of  the  humble,  it  is  the 
justice  of  God  passing  by.    ..." 

The  women  turned  transfigured  faces  towards  him. 
Eyes  glistened  with  tears.  The  saint  went  up  to  a 
workman  who  wore  a  crape  band  round  his  sleeve  and 
took  his  hands : 

"Don't  weep,"  he  said,  "Have  courage.  .  .  . 
She  is  not  yet  dead,  since  she  survives  in  you. 
Throughout  the  centuries  those  who  have  loved  seek 
each  other  unconsciously  in  the  world,  and  one  day 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  i8 


■J 


they  meet  again.  So  be  kind  to  everyone.  .  .  . 
Tell  yourselves  that  there  is  a  soul  hidden  in  the  body 
of  your  neighbour,  and  that  perhaps  some  time  in  the 
past  that  soul  has  suffered  for  you.    ..." 

A  militant,  who  was  gnawing  the  stiff  hairs  of  his 
moustache  as  he  listened,  was  the  only  one  who  dared 
to  interrupt  him.  These  promises  of  a  distant  reward 
did  not  satisfy  him. 

"Since  God  has  put  us  here  on  earth,"  he  asked 
bitterly,  "why  does  He  not  establish  justice?" 

Magloire  Dubourg  looked  at  him  without  anger. 

"And  do  you  think  God  ought  to  take  the  trouble 
to  distribute  to  each  man  his  ration  of  happiness,  like 
you  divide  the  fodder  among  cattle?"  he  answered. 
"Do  the  bees  need  you  to  build  their  hives  and 
direct  their  buzzing  realm;  or  the  swallows  to  build 
their  nests,  or  the  ants  their  subterranean  palaces? 
What  would  you  say  if  you  were  to  give  to  some 
people  a  castle  containing  all  the  treasures  of  the 
earth,  and  if  long  afterwards  the  house  were  still  in 
disorder,  with  men  fighting  in  it,  some  lying  gorged 
in  the  drawing  rooms,  while  others  were  starving  in 
the  attics?  Well,  God  is  the  Giver,  and  He  sees  you 
cutting  each  other's  throats  in  His  house.    ..." 

The  workmen  listened,  fascinated.  Open-eyed,  they 
entered  into  his  dream. 

"Then,"  said  an  old  woman  whose  hands  were 
trembhng,  "we  shall  see  our  dead  again,  I  shall  find 
my  boys?" 

"You  will  find  them!"  promised  the  Evangelist 
emphatically.  "  I  vouch  for  it :  death  is  nothing. 
.  .  .  What,  must  everj'thing  come  to  an  end  just 
because  an  outworn  heart  ceases  to  beat,  because  a 
breast  no  longer  rises  and  falls?  Must  the  soul,  in- 
tangible, yet  present,  which  we  feel  within  us,  fade 
into  nothingness  like  our  flesh  ?  No,  the  Divine  essence 
survives.  Nothing  dies,  even  when  the  shovelful  of 
earth  has  dropped  on  the  cofhn,  which  gives  back  a 
sound   of   emptiness.     The   soul   does   not   perish :    it 


i84  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

leaves  its  husk  like  a  nomad  his  shelter,  and  goes  on 
to  taste  of  perfect  rest  in  the  spiritual  kingdom. 
Heaven,  radiant  abode,  beatitude  of  beatitudes,  con- 
solation for  all  sorrows  !  In  the  kingdom  of  the  elect 
you  will  not  find  all  the  powerful  of  this  life,  the  rich, 
the  cruel  masters,  the  tormentors  of  the  world.  They, 
humble  and  despairing,  must  remain  in  the  mists  of 
lower  regions,  whence  they  look  with  envy  on  those 
who  have  lived  righteously  and  who  at  last  enjoy 
their  reward. 

It  is  up  there  that  the  soul  is  moulded,  summing 
up  its  good  deeds  and  its  sins;  for  it  rises  above 
Time  and  looks  back,  as  from  a  mountain-top,  on 
all  the  road  it  has  traversed,  all  its  former  lives. 
Then  there  is  gnashing  of  teeth,  albeit  without  fire  or 
torment,  at  the  vision  of  the  blessed  heights  to  which 
the  righteous  have  attained.  The  soul  vows  pas- 
sionately to  sacrifice  everything  henceforth  for  the 
sake  of  rising  one  step  nearer  God,  and  it  is  the 
obscure  recollection  of  such  pledges  that  guides  us 
here  on  earth.  When,  in  the  presence  of  evil,  a  faint 
voice  says  "Do  not  do  it !"  do  you  believe  that  it  is 
conscience;  conscience  is  but  a  vain  word  :  it  is  your 
eternal  soul  that  speaks  to  you,  that  implores  you, 
for  it  alone  remembers  the  anguish  it  has  endured 
on  high." 

At  this  moment  the  old  man,  breaking  off,  gazed 
at  them  all  with  his  compelling  eyes.  Then  with  a 
sweeping  gesture  he  drew  them,  panting,  closer  to 
him. 

"Listen  to  me.  In  the  cemetery  of  FavreuUes, 
near  here,  you  know  the  tomb  of  the  Marquise. 
More  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  she  was  buried  there 
by  her  own  desire,  with  all  her  jewels,  all  her  precious 
stones,  a  useless  fortune  grown  grey  and  tarnished 
on  her  old  bones.  Well,  I  saw  a  poor  woman  sitting 
dreaming  on  that  tombstone,  pulling  up  with  her 
worn  fingers  the  grass  that  grew  between  the  flags. 
Listen  to  me  !     What  if  that  were  the  Marquise  come 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  185 

back  to  her  tomb?  Yes,  was  it  indeed  not  she?  Her 
reincarnated  soul  draws  her  blindly  thither,  like  mi- 
grant birds  that  cross  the  seas  as  soon  as  their  wings 
will  bear  them,  without  knowing  why.  She  is  hungry, 
bowed  down  with  misery,  she  drags  herself  along  the 
roads  dreaming  of  a  hospital  where  she  may  rest; 
and  there,  close  by,  under  the  very  stone  that  she  is 
scratching,  lies  her  fortune  :  happiness  that  she  has 
buried,  bread,  raiment,  a  warm  house,  all  that  she 
stole  from  herself  when  she  stole  it  from  others,  fool 
that  she  was.  .  .  .  Well,  understand  me :  we  are 
like  the  mistress  of  Favreulles.  When  we  are  happy 
in  one  life  we  want  to  bury  happiness  with  us." 

The  workmen  listened  to  him,  feverishly,  with 
growing  exaltation.  A  new  world  was  opening  out 
before   them.     One   of   them,    overcome,    murmured : 

"Ah,  if  only  we  had  the  power  for  just  one  mo- 
ment, then,  by  God  !  everything  would  be  changed  !" 

This  oath  shocked  them  all. 

"Take  care,"  whispered  his  wife,  "the  saint  will 
hear  you." 

But  the  old  man,  full  of  joy  at  feeling  the  hearts 
of  these  disciples  awakening,  noticed  nothing.  He 
went  away,  and  those  who  had  been  listening  to  him 
followed  him  in  a  fervent  procession.  Mathieu,  the 
workman,  half-drunk  as  usual,  wept  without  ceasing. 

"Well,  since  we've  got  to  die,  I  don't  mind,"  he 
stuttered.     "I  may  have  better  luck  next  time." 

And  he  distributed  farewell  handshakes  around 
him,  saying  with  an  air  of  bravado  : 

"Good-bye  my  friends." 

The  saint  halted  as  he  was  passing  a  little  garden. 
He  plucked  a  velvety  jasmine  leaf,  and  rubbing  it 
between  his  brown  fingers,  inhaled  its  fragrance. 

"Smell  this,"  he  said  to  the  militant  workman  who 
had  interrupted  him,  and  he  handed  him  the  soft 
perfumed  leaf.  "You  who  do  not  believe  in  God, 
don't  you  see  in  this  a  proof  of  His  existence?  As 
for  me,  everything  I  see  around  me  cries  out  to  me 


i86  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

that  God  exists.  Smell  this  fresh  scent  that  clings 
to  one's  fingers.  What  was  needed  to  bring  it  to 
life?  A  fragile  seed  carried  by  the  wind.  The  seed 
falls,  and  you  have  this  blossoming  of  perfume  and 
colour.  Think  what  men  would  have  needed  to  make 
this  penetrating  odour  and  this  vivid  green,  picture 
to  yourself  the  factories  full  of  complicated  machinery, 
the  chemists,  the  workmen,  the  pjTamids  of  coal : 
and  the  perfume  would  have  been  less  sweet,  the 
colour  less  bright.  Well,  all  that  great  factory,  all 
that  science,  God  puts  them  all  into  a  seed  that  is 
borne  on  the  wing  of  a  bird.    .    .    ." 

He  spoke,  and  in  the  faUing  dust  the  bare-armed 
disciples  listened,  entranced.  There  was  joy  in  the 
air.  Happy  wives  nestled  against  their  husbands, 
slipping  their  little  cold  hands  into  the  big  rough 
ones;  mothers,  enraptured,  held  their  children  close 
to  them,  and  in  every  heart  fantastic  hopes  were  bom. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ABEt  Choisy  experienced  the  most  beautiful  emotion 
of  his  life  on  the  first  Sunday  when  he  saw  his  usually 
empty  church  filled  to  the  paupers'  bench  for  High 
Mass,  and  recognised  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  the 
most  desperate  characters  of  the  Aubernon  Cite.  Here 
were  those  who  generally  greeted  him  with  derisive 
cries,  and  even  Mathieu  the  workman,  who  declared 
that  babies  ought  to  be  baptized  with  red  wine.  At 
the  end  of  the  service  the  Abbe  quickly  removed  his 
chasuble  and,  hastening  back  to  the  chapel,  embraced 
Magloire  Dubourg  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  con- 
gregation. 

"You  have  converted  them,"  he  stammered.  "It  is 
you  who  have  brought  all  these  lost  sheep  back  to  God. 
People  may  say  what  they  like,  you  are  a  saint." 

He  had  immediately  forgotten  all  his  doubts  and 
the  feelings  of  mistrust  which  besieged  him  whenever 
he  read  certain  papers  that  Mme.  Pele  brought  to 
him.  He  was  proud  that  he  had  resisted  and  that 
he  had  not  wavered  in  his  faith  in  the  Evangelist. 
But  his  enthusiasm  did  not  last. 

These  new  converts,  who  were  looked  at  askance 
by  the  regular  worshippers,  were  filled  with  a  peculiar 
and  unconventional  faith.  From  the  following  Satur- 
day onward  he  had  to  deal  with  penitents  at  confession 
who  did  not  even  know  The  Lord's  Prayer,  though 
they  were  able  to  carry  on  impossible  discussions  on 
points  of  doctrine.  They  carped  at  everything,  made 
reservations  with  regard  to  the  Ten  Commandments, 
and  refused  without  hesitation  to  believe  in  Purgatory, 
Needless  to  say,  they  all  admitted  the  transmigration 
of  souls  as  an  essential  principle,  a  heresy  which  ap- 
palled the  cur6;    and  tliey  spoke  with  such  eloquence 

187 


i88  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

and    conviction,    weeping    and    beating    their   breasts 
that    Abbe    Choisy,    stunned,    deafened,    bewildered, 
felt  himself  unable  to  cope  with  them  and  preferred 
to  grant  them  absolution  at  once  and  so  get  rid  of 
them. 

The  parishioners  who  were  waiting  their  turn  and 
praying  in  the  shadow  of  the  side  aisles,  listened  in 
horror  to  these  lamentations  and  outbursts,  and  won- 
dered with  a  shudder  what  unpunished  crimes  could 
give  rise  to  such  confessions. 

One  morning,  in  the  middle  of  the  service,  a  scanda- 
lous scene  occurred.  A  woman — a  factory  hand — 
who  knelt  sobbing  on  her  prie-dieu,  suddenly  rose 
and,  turning  towards  the  congregation,  began  con- 
fessing her  sins  aloud,  like  the  Christians  of  old.  Her 
neighbours  in  dismay  endeavoured  to  make  her  sit 
down,  but  she  roughly  pushed  them  aside  and  went 
on  with  renewed  ardour,  proclaiming  her  faults  with 
abhorrence.  Finally,  to  make  her  stop,  Milot  had  to 
lead  her  outside,  which  was  much  better  for  her  own 
sake,  for  her  husband's,  and  for  that  of  various  other 
people  in  the  parish.  This  incident  made  the  worst 
possible  impression  on  the  regular  worshippers,  people 
of  staunch  faith;  and  Baptistine  Pele,  with  fresh 
audacity,  undertook  a  stealthy  compaign  against  the 
disciples  of  the  saint. 

She  did  not  dare  to  side  openly  against  the  Evan- 
gelist, but  her  aim  was  to  drive  away  from  "iier" 
church  all  these  rowdy  converts,  who  seemed  to  feel 
quite  at  home  in  it  and  did  not  recognise  her  authority. 
As  she  knew  Mass  by  heart,  she  rose,  sat  down,  and 
knelt  before  anybody  else,  even  forestalling  the  re- 
sponses; and  like  an  old  hen,  her  cruel  eye  scanned 
the  submissive  herd  of  those  who  followed  her  example 
without  trying  to  understand,  and  crossed  themselves 
indiscriminately  as  soon  as  she  gave  the  signal.  She 
sang  all  the  hymns  and  canticles  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
trying  to  shame  the  new-comers  by  pretending  never 
to  look  at  the  book;    and  when  the  consecrated  bread 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  i8g 

was  being  distributed  she  kept  her  ej^es  on  the  basket, 
as  though  she  beheved  that  all  of  them  were  capable 
of  trying  to  lay  in  supplies  from  it.  She  sought  every 
means  of  mortifvdng  the  converts  from  the  Cite;  and 
she  set  about  it  so  adroitly,  with  hj'pocritical  smiles 
and  an  air  of  trying  to  do  a  ser\dce,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  find  a  pretext  for  being  angry 
with  her. 

Fortunately,  if  the  parents  dared  not  protest,  the 
youngsters  were  bolder;  and  whenever  they  met  the 
widow  at  dusk  after  catechism,  they  escorted  her 
home  and  shouted  horrid  innuendoes  at  her. 

These  young  rascals,  who  had  only  been  going  to 
church  since  the  conversion  of  the  Cite,  were  recruits 
of  little  value.  They  only  served  to  create  disorder. 
They  were  jealous  of  the  sons  of  the  country-folk  and 
tradespeople,  and  revenged  themselves  by  repeating 
to  them  that  they  were  just  as  good  as  they  were, 
and  that  their  turn  would  come  next  time  to  have 
fathers  rolling  in  money.  When  the  weU-dressed  ones 
sneered,  they  kicked  them  fiercely  under  the  benches 
and  stole  the  pictures  out  of  their  prayer-books. 

It  was  Yvonne  Dubourg  who,  to  please  her  uncle, 
coached  all  these  urchins  in  the  catechism.  She  was 
the  only  person  who  could  keep  them  in  order.  They 
all  knew  her,  having  often  seen  her  at  the  Dispensary 
in  the  Cite,  where  she  helped  Mme.  Aubemon;  it  was 
she  who  dressed  their  aching  little  hands,  which  were 
covered  with  those  sores  from  which  only  the  children 
of  the  very  poor  suffer.  As  she  spoke  gently  to  them, 
making  the  smaller  ones  laugh  and  flattering  the 
elders,  they  were  on  their  best  behaviour  with  her. 
Sometimes,  however,  she  did  not  come,  and  Josephin 
Pele  looked  after  them;  and  then  catechism  turned 
into  pandemonium.  Feeling  that  this  big  trembling 
simpleton  was  at  their  mercy,  old  pupils  and  new 
leagued  themselves  maliciously  against  him;  they 
shoved  each  other,  squalled,  gave  idiotic  answers  to 
make  the  others  laugh,  and,  from  hiding  places,  threw 

N 


I90  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

moth-worms  at  his  back,  incited  thereto  by  the  one- 
legged  sacristan,  who  exulted  in  the  discomfiture  of 
Josephin. 

At  last  Abbe  Choisy  grew  unhappy  at  this  continual 
agitation,  and  began  secretly  to  regret  his  deserted 
church  of  by-gone  days,  with  the  thinly-scattered  flock 
which  had  been  so  easy  to  lead.  It  was  not  to  him 
that  all  these  fanatics  came  :  it  was  not  even  to  God; 
it  was  the  saint  who  drew  them.  Urged  on  by  the 
Widow  Pele,  he  at  last  decided  to  inform  the  Bishop  of 
all  these  incidents  and  to  ask  for  guidance;  but  the 
Vicar-General,  who  received  him,  only  exhorted  him 
to  be  patient  and  gave  him  no  instructions.  The 
Church,  to  avoid  a  scandal,  preferred  for  the  moment 
to  ignore  the  doings  of  Magloire  Dubourg. 

The  Evangelist  often  called  his  disciples  together. 
The  meetings  took  place  either  in  the  Cite,  after 
supper,  at  the  hour  when  the  houses  dream  in  the 
fading  day  and  the  lights  come  slowly  out,  or  else  in 
the  dusky  fields  on  the  borders  of  the  Bois  Noisette. 
The  couples  stretched  on  the  grass  or  seated  along 
the  hedges  kept  their  eyes  fixed  on  Magloire's  face  : 
he  spoke,  and  aU  the  converging  glances,  like  taut 
strings,  seemed  to  draw  new  vitality  from  him.  At 
first  they  listened  attentively,  trying  to  understand 
ever}^thing;  but  little  by  little  their  attention  wan- 
dered, as  though  blunted;  the  meaning  of  the  words 
no  longer  reached  them.  It  was  as  if  the  Voice  be- 
witched them.  They  were  bewildered  and  could  only 
catch  hold  of  a  word  here  and  there  :  happiness  .  .  . 
grace  .  .  .  goodness  .  .  .  ,  which  their  eyes 
seemed  to  gather  from  the  lips  of  the  saint;  and  in- 
coherently their  dreams  floated  round  his  sayings. 
A  mysterious  power  emanated  from  the  old  man's 
ecstasy,  and  in  the  night  its  boundaries  stretched  as 
far  as  his  voice  could  carry;  when  he  feU  silent  his 
audience  remembered  nothing,  and  only  felt  within 
themselves  a  mighty  desire  for  love  and  atonement. 

Often,  too,  the  saint  explained  the  Gospel  to   small 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  191 

groups  at  a  time,  in  the  houses;  and  if  on  the  following 
Sunday  the  same  passage  happened  to  be  commented 
on  from  the  pulpit,  the  poor  Abbe  would  see  his 
parishioners  staring  at  him  with  contemptuous  grim- 
aces, which  clearly  meant  "  Pooh,  pooh  !  not  brilliant ! " 

In  proportion  as  the  saint's  popularity  grew  in  the 
Cite,  it  diminished  in  the  rest  of  the  countryside. 
Everything  he  did — and  he  did  nothing  but  good — 
exasperated  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants,  specially 
the  big  farmers,  the  shopkeepers  and  the  pensioned 
employees.  All  these  good  people  preferred  an  order 
of  things  based  on  the  poverty  of  others  to  all  the 
happiness  which  might  arise  out  of  an  upheaval. 
When  Saint  Magloire  asked  the  Town  CouncU  to  place 
the  parish  meadow,  which  yielded  no  income,  at  the 
disposal  of  tramps,  so  that  the  best  of  them  could 
settle  down,  his  request  called  forth  general  condem- 
nation. The  peasants  were  convinced  that  they  would 
be  robbed — "as  if  we  hadn't  enough  to  put  up  with, 
with  these  dirty  factory  folk  ! " — and  the  day-labourers 
complained  that  the  object  of  the  scheme  was  to 
take  the  bread  out  of  their  mouths.  Later,  the  old 
man  suggested  to  the  cure,  whom  the  proposal  left 
speechless,  that  all  the  children  should  be  dressed  in 
cassocks  for  their  first  Communion,  so  that  rich  and 
poor  might  look  alike  at  God's  Table;  and  the  Widow 
Pele  went  about  telling  every  one  in  Barlincourt  that 
"Magloire  Dubourg  was  surely  jealous  of  the  honour 
rendered  to  the  Lord." 

Even  the  very  words  of  the  Nazarene  in  Saint  Mag- 
loire's  mouth  scared  the  most  pious  among  them  like 
a  call  to  riot;  and  when  the  Evangelist  in  the  course 
of  a  harangue  flung  out  Christ's  terrible  warning,  "I 
am  not  come  to  bring  peace  upon  the  earth  but  a 
sword,"  people  timidly  repeated  the  threat  to  each 
other,  wondering  whether  the  gendarmes  were  not  at 
last  going  to  interfere.  Sometimes  the  EvangeUst 
took  upon  himself  to  act  as  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and 
settled   quarrels   without   even   waiting   to  be   asked. 


192  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

He  entered  the  wine-shops  on  Saturdays  and  made 
the  men  go  home,  which  led  to  a  formal  complaint 
being  lodged  by  a  publican.  Finally  he  called  one 
day  on  a  rich  peasant  who  was  intending  to  evict  one 
of  his  tenants  and  spoke  to  him  so  sternly  that  the 
other  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  fit. 

By  this  time  people  in  Barlincourt  were  afraid  of  the 
saint  and  his  band  of  disciples.  Though  the  women 
in  the  Cite  now  sang  hymns  instead  of  popular  songs, 
no  one  dared  to  venture  there  after  dark.  Nothing 
was  more  startling  at  night  than  to  hear  the  invisible 
murmur  of  the  praying  crowd  drawing  near  on  the 
dark  road,  on  its  way  back  from  the  meetings.  People 
gave  them  a  wide  berth,  and  the  dogs  in  the  yards 
started  howling. 

M.  Ouatrepomme,  more  prudent  than  ever,  took 
good  care  not  to  intervene  publicly,  but,  without  say- 
ing anything,  he  despatched  complaint  after  complaint 
to  the  Prefecture.  The  Aubernons  also,  although  they 
were  on  good  terms  with  the  Dubourgs,  were  beginning 
to  feel  anxious.  The  manufacturer  found  that  his 
men  were  changed,  and  "ready  to  play  dirty  tricks." 
His  wife  confined  herself  to  duty  calls  on  her  neigh- 
bours, and  only  paid  these  to  please  their  Paris  friends, 
who  always  asked  to  be  taken  to  the  King's  Domain. 
M.  Georges,  who  had  been  cut  to  the  quick  by  the 
rebuffs  he  had  received  from  the  saint,  only  came  on 
Sundays  when  his  mother's  guests  made  their  pilgrimage. 

Yvonne  waited  for  these  afternoons  with  feverish 
impatience,  and  after  lunch  was  finished  she  found  it 
difficult  to  sit  still.  She  ran  out  to  meet  all  the 
visitors,  so  that  she  could  do  the  same  thing  when  the 
Aubernons  arrived  and  talk  for  a  moment  to  Georges, 
walk  at  his  side,  hear  his  voice  speaking  for  her  alone. 

"You  never  come  now,"  she  reproached  him  softly, 
with  averted  eyes. 

"Is  it  my  fault?"  he  retorted  touchily.  "Your 
uncle  pulls  such  a  face  at  me.  ...  It  annoys  me 
every  bit  as  much  as  it  does  you,  I  assure  you." 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  193 

These  few  insignificant  phrases,  which  they  ex- 
changed without  her  daring  to  look  at  him, 
represented  to  her  the  happiness  of  a  whole  week. 
On  other  days,  when  she  went  to  the  Dispensary,  or  to 
the  station,  she  walked  slowly  and  would  go  far  out 
of  her  way  in  the  hope  of  meeting  the  young  man. 
She  always  contrived  to  go  out  at  the  time  when  he 
was  returning  from  tennis,  and  as  soon  as  she  caught 
sight  of  him,  bareheaded,  in  the  midst  of  his  friends, 
she  would  feel  herself  blushing  and  would  turn  quickly 
into  the  first  side-street;  or  else  she  would  pass  by, 
almost  running,  giving  him  a  little  scared  nod  with- 
out raising  her  eyes.  She  had  sometimes  been  walking 
for  an  hour  just  for  that  greeting. 

The  peasants,  whose  sharp  eyes  discern  all  that  one 
is  anxious  to  hide,  had  quickly  seen  through  this 
manoeuvre. 

"She  is  running  after  him,  the  saint's  niece,"  they 
said  jokingly.  "The  cure  will  hear  some  fine  tales 
one  Saturday." 

The  child  recalled  with  a  bitter  delight  the  beautiful 
summer  afternoons  they  used  to  spend  together  before 
the  saint's  arrival.  She  remembered  their  games, 
the  cosy  hours  they  had  spent  in  the  drawing-room 
where,  leaning  over  her,  he  turned  the  pages  of 
Schumann's  melodies;  their  wild  races  through  the 
Park,  from  which  she  returned  with  her  fai"-  hair 
clinging  to  her  forehead,  and  sometimes  their  hands 
interlacing  as  they  tied  up  a  bunch  of  flowers. 

In  the  morning,  as  Georges  often  went  to  their 
friends  at  the  Chataigneraie,  she  would  watch  for  him 
at  the  railings,  and  would  speak  to  him  from  between 
the  ivy  which  she  had  pulled  aside.  She  had  prepared 
reproaches  with  which  to  overwhelm  him;  but  her 
black  eyes,  soft  and  timid,  hidden  in  the  foliage  like 
a  squirrel's,  seemed  to  be  giving  the  lie  to  all  she  said. 
M.  Georges  took  fire  at  this  tender  game.  Now  that 
they  only  met  in  secret  his  feelings  were  quite  different 
from  what   they  had   been   before.      The  bars  which 


194  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

separated  them  made  him  long  to  clasp  her  in  his 
arms.  Across  the  railing  he  took  hold  of  her  hands, 
then  of  her  slender  arms,  and  covered  them  with 
hurried  kisses,  while  with  head  thrown  back  and  closed 
eyelids  she  timorously  withheld  her  mouth. 

"Come  with  me  to  the  Chataigneraie,"  he  said  to  her, 
his  breath  burning  her  cheek.  "We  will  say  that  we 
met  by  chance." 

She  refused,  shamefaced. 

"Oh,  no,  I  should  never  dare!" 

"Then,"  he  insisted,  "come  this  afternoon  to  the 
Bois  Noisette.     I'll  be  there  at  four  o'clock." 

She  still  refused,  her  legs  weakening  under  her,  her 
hands  limp.  She  dreaded  these  rendezvous  which 
at  one  time  she  would  have  accepted  with  no  thought 
of  evil. 

"WeU,  then,  good-bye,"  the  young  man  said  curtly. 

And,  nibbling  a  very  bitter  ivy  leaf  which  he  had 
plucked,  he  went  off,  with  his  springy  step,  while  she, 
leaning  her  forehead  against  the  bars,  with  two  heavy 
drops  of  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  watched  him  disappearing. 

She  was  so  unhappy  that  she  ended  by  giving  in; 
one  day  she  joined  the  young  man  in  the  Bois 
Noisette.  She  went  again  a  few  days  later,  and  soon 
it  became  a  regular  practice. 

"We  are  not  doing  any  harm,"  M.  Georges  said  to 
her,  feeling  that  she  was  nervous  and  worried.  "As 
long  as  your  uncle  is  here  we  shall  not  be  able  to  meet 
at  your  house." 

Every  night,  when  she  went  up  to  her  room  after 
dinner,  still  stirred  by  the  words  of  the  saint,  she 
swore  to  herself  that  she  would  not  return  to  the 
wood;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  in  bed,  the  day  she 
had  just  spent  passed  before  her  in  the  haze  of  im- 
pending sleep,  and  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  her 
happiness.  She  compelled  herself  to  keep  awake  a 
moment  longer  in  order  to  think  of  Georges,  to  see 
him  again,  to  repeat  his  loving  words  to  herself. 

They  sat  among  the  ferns;    little  insects  sometimes 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  195 

ran  over  her  white  stockings  and  made  her  cry  out. 
She  noticed  pearls  of  sweat  on  Georges'  forehead  and 
wiped  them  off  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

He  was  stretched  out  in  front  of  her,  half  raised  on 
his  elbows,  gazing  at  her.  He  had  beautiful  brown 
eyes,  shining  like  chestnuts,  and  when  their  faces  drew 
closer  together  she  could  see  her  own  image  in  them, 
the  dark  mass  of  the  trees,  the  infinity  of  the  sky :  the 
whole  world  was  contained  in  that  beloved  mirror. 

When  he  clasped  her  more  tightly,  when  he  opened 
her  timid  hands,  when  he  tried  to  take  hold  of  the 
restive  little  head,  she  struggled  for  a  moment,  then, 
cravenly,  she  yielded.  .  .  .  She  felt  the  caress  of 
his  long  eyelashes  on  her  neck,  the  touch  of  his  fingers 
on  her  bare  arms,  then  between  the  buttons  of  her 
bodice.  ...  He  spoke  to  her,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
pressing  her  against  him  : 

"I  would  like  to  feel  that  you  are  entirely  mine,  to 
take  you.  .  .  .  No,  do  not  draw  back.  I  adore 
you,  my  little  love.  ...  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
afraid  of  me,  Yvonne.  For  you  will  be  my  wife.  .  . 
You  will,  won't  you,  Yvette,  be  my  little  wife?  Oh 
you  will  see  how  I  shaU  love  you.  .  .  .  Don't  move  ! 
Stay  just  like   that.      I  love  you  so  much,  so  much  ! ' 

And  with  closed  eyes,  curled  up  in  her  virginal  bed 
she  still  seemed  to  feel  the  rough  arm  that  held   her 
the  hand  which  slowly  bent  back  her  head,  the  mouth 
which    sought    hers.    .    .    ,    She    wished    she    could 
have  gone  to  sleep  with  all  those  kisses.   .   .  . 

In  the  morning,  when  Yvonne  walked  across  the 
garden  to  post  herself  at  the  railings  and  watch  for 
Georges,  she  often  met  Petit  Louis,  engaged  in  mowing 
the  grass.  The  under-garden er  did  not  seem  to  notice 
her;  yet  he  did  not  take  his  furtive  glance  off  her,  and 
as  soon  as  she  had  disappeared  behind  the  lilac  bushes, 
he  cut  through  the  park,  stooping  down  and  parting 
the  branches  as  he  went.  His  rubber-soled  shoes 
slid  noiselessly  over  the  fragrant  twigs  that    dropped 


196  SAINT    MAGLOIRE 

from  the  firs,  and  kneeling  behind  a  shrub,  motionless, 
with  bated  breath,  he  spied  on  her.  In  the  afternoon, 
in  the  Bois  Noisette,  he  repeated  this  performance. 

The  jail-bird  felt  a  bitter  joy  as  he  watched  the  girl 
grow  daily  weaker,  almost  ready  to  yield.  He  fervently 
longed  for  more  urgent  caresses,  where  he  might  catch 
a  glimpse  of  her  bare  skin,  a  little  of  her  costly  under- 
linen.  The  first  time  that  he  discovered  the  young 
people  in  a  glade,  exchanging  a  real  kiss,  their  bodies 
crushed  together,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  himself 
were  giving  that  kiss.  He  dreamt  that  his  arms  were 
about  Yvonne's  supple  waist,  and,  raising  himself  on 
his  hands,  panting,  he  urged  them  on  with  all  his  will, 
hoping  to  see  them  fall  down  on  the  grass  before  him. 
But  the  arm  relaxed  its  hold;  the  girl  ran  away  with- 
out looking  back. 

"  Sold  ! "  whispered  the  rough,  furiously. 

V/hen  he  came  upon  one  of  these  scenes  he  was  dis- 
turbed for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  his  heart  was  full 
of  envy.  Lolling  in  the  moss,  with  a  blade  of  grass 
between  his  teeth,  he  built  up  a  dream,  in  which  he 
was  dressed  like  the  other  man,  talking  with  ease  and 
using  words  he  did  not  understand.  Between  the 
branches  he  saw  Yvonne  pass  by,  crowned  with  misty 
light  by  the  sun,  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  go 
on  working,  with  his  flesh  tormented  and  his  heart 
seething  with  rancour. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  the  saint  asked  him 
one  day  when  he  discovered  him  lying  among  the  ferns. 

Petit  Louis  stood  up,  vexed. 

"I  am  not  doing  any  harm,"  he  growled,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  ground.  "A  fellow  needs  a  bit  of  a 
rest,  I'm  not  a  machine." 

He  stood  with  bowed  head,  his  teeth  showing  a 
little  between  his  thin  lips,  like  a  frightened  dog. 

"I  am  not  reproaching  you,  my  lad,"  the  old  man 
said  to  him.  "Come  along  with  me  for  a  little,  will 
you?     I  am  going  to  see  my  bees." 

They  walked  side  by  side  to  the  kitchen  garden. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  197 

"Are  you  happy  here?"  Magloire  Dubourg  asked 
him  bluntly. 

Adele's  nephew  shook  his  head  and  answered 
"No." 

"Why?" 

Petit  Louis  shrugged  his  shoulders  uncertainly. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  I  suppose  I  started  all 
wrong.     All  those  convictions  did  me  harm.    ..." 

The  saint  watched  him  sadly. 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  lad.  You  have  no  right  to 
despair  and  grow  bitter.  You  must  resist  evil,  reject 
temptation  and  tear  out  your  heart  rather  than  give 
way.  Do  you  hear  me  ? "  And  the  old  man  took 
Petit  Louis  by  the  shoulders  to  compel  him  to  look 
him  in  the  face.  "Nothing  can  force  you  to  do  ^v^ong, 
and  if  an  evil  spirit  is  within  you,  you  must  overcome 
it." 

At  that  moment  the  Evangelist  noticed  a  sort  of 
mark  on  the  narrow  forehead  of  the  youth,  and  with 
the  tip  of  his  finger  he  pushed  aside  the  tangled  hair. 

"What  is  this?     Tattooing?" 

"Yes,"  Petit  Louis  admitted,  turning  away  his  eyes. 

"What  is  written  on  it?" 

The  boy's  voice  grew  still  more  husky : 

"For  Deibler,"^  he  answered. 

The  words,  indeed,  were  to  be  read  above  his  eye- 
brows, in  blue  letters,  and  the  saint  gently  passed 
his  hand  across  them  as  though  he  believed  that  in  this 
way  he  could  erase  them. 

Every  day  about  three  o'clock  Petit  Louis  walked 
up  to  the  Bois  Noisette  with  a  wheelbarrow  filled  with 
herbs,  and  seated  in  that  soft  chair  of  verdure  he 
waited  for  Julie  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  Baptistine's 
maid  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long;  she  took  the 
short  cut  across  the  fields.  Then  he  crammed  into 
her  hod  the  convolvulus  and  the  dandelions  which  he 
had  picked  for  her  in  the  morning,  and  they  had  a 
1  Deiblcr  :  the  French  executioner. 


igS  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

good  hour  of  freedom  left,  which  they  spent  lying 
under  the  trees.  It  was  the  girl  who  had  suggested 
that  Petit  Louis  should  pick  the  food  for  the  rabbits 
beforehand.  This  prevented  Mme.  Pele,  who  allowed 
roughly  an  hour  for  Julie's  task,  from  becoming  sus- 
picious. In  this  way  the  boy  was  encouraged,  much 
as  he  disliked  work,  willingly  to  undertake  the  picking 
every  morning,  while  he  rejoiced  at  the  thought  that 
he  was  getting  the  better  of  the  widow. 

Petit  Louis  and  Julie  had  known  each  other  from 
childhood;  they  had  been  brought  up  on  two  neigh- 
bouring farms  as  wards  of  the  Assistance  Publique, 
and  had  met  as  tiny  tots  on  the  benches  of  the  school 
and  in  the  fields  where  they  romped.  While  they 
were  still  learning  to  speU,  their  mutual  wretchedness 
formed  a  bond  between  them.  The  other  children 
despised  them  for  belonging  to  the  Assistance,  and 
one  day  they  had  clung  together  and  wept  while  the 
little  peasants  danced  round  them  singing : 

"  Oh  !  they  have  no  father  ! 
Oh  !  they  have  no  mother  !  " 

They  did  not  talk  much  to  the  others  :  they  were 
considered  sly.  They  always  went  about  together. 
It  was  said  that  they  were  up  to  mischief.  The  school- 
master did  not  like  them  and  the  cure  had  dismissed 
Petit  Louis  from  the  catechism. 

At  the  age  of  ten  the  boy  already  knew  how  to 
fight :  he  was  driven  to  it;  and  during  the  last  years 
spent  with  their  foster-parents,  Julie  and  he  were  left 
in  peace,  for  the  little  peasants,  who  were  cowardly 
enough,  kept  out  of  their  way. 

"Us  two,"  said  Petit  Louis  to  his  little  friend,  "we 
come  from  Paris.  When  we  are  grown  up  we'll  go 
back  there." 

He  was  the  only  one  who  went  back,  having  run 
away  at  fifteen  from  the  metal-beater  who  employed 
him;    and   Julie   did   not   hear   from  him   for  several 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  199 

years.  Then — a  few  months  ago — they  met  again  by 
chance  at  Barlincourt.  Petit  Louis  had  been  con- 
victed four  times,  forbidden  to  live  in  Paris,  and  de- 
clared liable  to  deportation  on  his  next  offence.  He 
was  known  as  "The  Lath,"  and  was  now  a  young 
bandit,  ready  for  anything. 

At  the  time  of  his  last  conviction,  a  housebreaking 
affair  in  the  suburbs,  he  had  had  as  counsel  a  friend 
of  the  Dubourgs,  and  it  was  in  this  way  that,  by  a 
strange  chain  of  circumstances,  Adele  had  found  her 
nephew,  the  little  boy  whom  his  parents  had  handed 
over  to  the  Assistance  Publique  at  two  years  of  age, 
and  whom  she  had  sought  in  vain  since  her  sister's 
death.  The  delicate  baby,  whom  she  used  to  cover 
with  kisses  as  she  unswathed  him,  had  grown  into 
this  sly  young  ruffian;  and  the  servant's  despair  had 
been  so  great  that  her  employers  had  consented  to 
take  the  boy  into  their  service  when  he  left  prison, 
in  the  hope  that  he  might  reform.  However,  the 
regular  life  which  he  now  led  had  not  changed  him, 
and  his  aunt  was  always  in  fear  that  he  might  sud- 
denly go  back  to  Paris  and  resume  his  evil  ways. 

Wlien  the  poor  woman  gently  reproached  him.  Petit 
Louis  answered  in  his  drawling  voice  : 

"It  isn't  my  fault.  ...  I  am  not  bad  at  heart, 
but  I'm  made  that  way." 

His  slouching  gait,  his  slang,  his  nickname,  even  his 
way  of  smoking,  with  the  stump  of  his  cigarette  stuck 
to  his  hp,  had  all  dazzled  Julie,  who  detested  the 
peasants  and  their  clumsy  manners.  She  listened 
open-mouthed  to  his  Parisian  reminiscences,  and  she 
who  since  childhood  had  been  broken  in  to  servitude 
in  every  shape  and  form,  at  last  understood  the  mean- 
ing of  happiness  :  lazy  mornings  in  bed  in  furnished 
rooms;  Sundays  under  the  arbours  of  Nogent  where 
you  eat  fried  fish;  the  little  bars  of  the  Boulevard 
Omano,  where  the  men  play  cards  amid  the  jangling 
noise  of  barrel-organs;  evenings  at  the  cinema  or  the 
music-hall;    and   balls    in    the   smoky   atmosphere   of 


200  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

La  Chapelle,  with  the  couples  whirling  round  to  the 
strains  of  an  accordion. 

Later,  when  she  was  of  age,  they  would  both  lead 
that  sort  of  life  :  they  had  sworn  it.  Petit  Louis  spoke 
crudely  of  the  kind  of  work  he  expected  from  her,  and 
of  what  he  would  do  on  his  side. 

"The  struggle  to  get  the  grub,  eh?  you  under- 
stand ?  "  he  repeated  at  every  sentence. 

He  spoke  awkwardly,  hunting  for  the  words  he 
needed,  and  the  effort  wrinkled  his  forehead. 

"The  b  .  .  .  shame  of  it,"  he  often  said,  "is  that 
here  I  am  losing  my  connections." 

And  he  spoke  of  going  up  "on  the  quiet"  some 
Saturday  to  take  a  look  round  in  Paris. 

"But  you  have  no  right,  you  are  forbidden  to  go 
there,"  she  whispered,  terrified.  "If  you  were 
caught.    ..." 

"Don't  you  worry,  we  know  how  to  wangle  it." 

And  he  added  with  cynical  pride  : 

"All  the  same,  there  aren't  so  many  of  my  age  that 
are  down  to  be  deported  ! " 

Every  night  when  she  had  finished  washing  up  and 
was  supposed  to  be  in  bed,  Julie  went  out  to  Petit 
Louis.  Without  anger,  resigned  to  her  lot,  she  told 
him  the  troubles  of  the  day  : 

"The  mistress  wants  to  call  me  with  a  whistle  now, 
like  a  dog;    she  says  I  don't  hear  on  purpose.    ..." 

These  confidences  made  Petit  Louis  turn  pale  with  rage. 

"And  why  does  she  make  you  take  a  hod  when  you 
go  for  fodder?"  he  grunted.  "You  are  not  a  rag- 
picker." 

"She  won't  let  me  take  a  proper  basket,"  the  girl 
answered  timidly.     "She  says  it's  the  spirit  of  pride." 

"The  Lath"  often  spoke  of  the  saint.  His  con- 
versations with  the  old  man  made  him  feel  uneasy. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  a  glimmer  of  thought  came 
to  birth  in  his  dull  brain. 

"  I  am  not  a  fool,  eh  ? "  he  said  to  Julie,  "  but  there's 
some  things   I   don't  understand.     I   can't  get  them 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  201 

into  my  head.     It's  as  if   I  was  sleeping  while   I'm 
being  talked  to." 

What  had  struck  him  most  was  the  saint's  voice 
saying:  "Nothing  can  force  you  to  do  wrong,"  and 
his  compelling  glance,  his  powerful  grip. 

"I  tell  you,  it's  no  bunkum,  he  frightened  me.  .  .  . 
Now,  what  do  you  think  ?     Why  did  he  teU  me  that  ?  " 

The  wastrel  also  talked  about  Yvonne  and  Georges. 
He  sometimes  made  Julie  hide  with  htm  behind  the 
hazel-trees,  and  together  they  watched  the  arrival  of 
the  young  people,  who  came  bj^^  the  sunken  path. 

"Look  at  her  beautiful  hair,"  he  whispered. 

At  a  distance  they  could  not  hear  what  the  lovers 
were  saying  to  each  other,  but  they  saw  M.  Georges 
drag  the  girl  away.  He  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  her 
and  she,  ashamed  of  her  fear,  making  up  her  mind  aU 
of  a  sudden,  followed  him,  climbing  the  slope,  where 
the  blackberry  bushes  caught  at  her  skirt. 

When  they  had  disappeared  in  the  thicket,  Petit 
Louis  crawled  in  their  wake,  still  hoping  to  see  some- 
thing. After  a  moment  he  came  back,  disappointed, 
and  sat  down  again  on  his  wheelbarrow.  He  kept 
silent,  his  eyes  gleaming;  perhaps  he  was 
thinking.    .    .    . 

"You'd  look  better  if  you  had  fair  hair,"  he  said 
suddenly  to  his  mistress  one  day. 

Julie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  can't  change  myself,  can  I?" 

But  when  an  idea  once  penetrated  under  Louis's 
narrow  brow  it  was  like  a  big  stone  against  which  he 
continually  stumbled.     He  returned  to  the  subject  later. 

Up  till  now  he  had  never  noticed  the  chestnut  hair 
of  the  little  maid-of-all-work,  but  suddenly  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else. 

"I  swear  to  you  3-ou'd  look  better.  .  .  .  That, 
and  a  beautiful  striped  dress,  now  wouldn't  you  make 
a  splash  ? " 

Julie,  too,  ended  by  thinking  about  it,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  noticed  that  her  hair  was  dull  and  dry. 


202  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

with  no  suppleness  or  gloss  in  it.  She  also  looked  at 
her  frock,  supplied  by  the  Assistance  Publique,  made 
of  common  blue  print,  and  the  horrible  black  straw 
hat,  belonging  to  the  uniform,  which  her  mistress 
made  her  wear  on  Sundays  to  humihate  her.  It 
made  her  feel  thoroughly  ashamed. 

"Why  do  you  talk  to  me  about  it?"  she  sighed, 
"when  it  isn't  possible." 

But  Petit  Louis  stuck  to  his  idea.  To  tempt  her 
he  talked  of  the  jealousy  of  the  other  girls  and  of  the 
sensational  entry  they  would  make  at  the  Dumarchey 
ball,  she  quite  fair  and  "well  turned  out,"  with  high 
heels  and  silk  stockings,  like  a  "Paris  madam."  He 
insisted  that  she  should  dye  her  hair. 

"  Say  yes,  and  I'll  buy  you  a  lovely  dress,"  he  repeated. 

But  Julie  did  not  dare.  When  he  came  on  certain 
nights  to  her  attic,  just  above  the  widow's  room,  they 
sat  on  the  folding  bed  and  talked  in  hushed  tones. 
Petit  Louis  removed  his  boots  so  that  he  should  not 
make  a  noise,  and  they  made  love  and  quarrelled  in 
silence,  without  a  sound. 

Each  time  the  dispute  started  afresh. 

"If  you  don't  do  as  I  say,"  Louis  threatened  in  a 
whisper,  "I'll  throw  you  over  and  I'll  play  some  trick 
on  the  old  hag  so  that  she'll  send  you  away." 

At  last,  too  weak  to  hold  out  against  him,  the  little 
servant  gave  in. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  murmured  one  evening.  "The 
mistress  can  say  what  she  likes." 

"Come,  come,  she  can't  eat  you  with  her  false  teeth." 

One  Saturday  Petit  Louis  went  off  to  Paris,  changing 
trains  at  Gisors  because  he  imagined  he  was  being 
watched  on  the  Northern  Railway  by  the  special  police. 
He  returned  with  a  large  parcel :  some  dress  material, 
shoes,  stockings,  ribbons,  and  a  large  bottle  of 
peroxide.     All  his  money  had  gone  in  these  purchases. 

"I  am  cleaned  out,"  he  told  her.  "But  I  declare 
you'U  be  a  toff ! " 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  203 

With  the  help  of  a  girl  friend  who  said  she  had 
learned  sewing  at  a  dressmaker's,  Julie  made  her  frock 
herself.  Only,  instead  of  placing  the  blue  stripes 
lengthwise  they  set  them  horizontally,  so  that  the 
charity  girl,  who  was  naturally  dumpy,  looked  as 
though  she  were  cut  in  slices  like  a  Bologna  sausage. 

Petit  Louis  was  present  at  the  fitting. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  cried  triumphantly,  in 
spite  of  the  stripes.     "You  look  different  aheady." 

The  following  Saturday  was  the  great  day.  There 
was  a  night  ball  at  Dumarchey's  for  the  Barlincourt 
festival,  and  the  Peles  were  dining  with  the  lady  from 
Paris,  who  limped  more  and  more  the  longer  she 
waited  for  the  miracle. 

When  Julie,  whom  they  all  knew  as  a  shabby  little 
maid-of-all-work,  in  clumsy  shoes  and  a  gleaner's 
bonnet,  entered  the  dancing-hall,  with  yellow  hair,  a 
short  skirt  and  a  black  ribbon  tied  round  her  neck, 
no  one  recognised  her.  They  thought  at  first  that 
"The  Lath"  had  brought  a  woman  from  Paris. 

Milot  was  the  first  to  cry  out : 

"Why,  it's  Baptistine's  maid!" 

Then  all  the  dancers  flocked  up,  screaming  with 
joy,  and  the  last  comers  climbed  on  chairs  to  have  a 
look  at  the  phenomenon.  People  shouted  and  laughed  : 
the  music  had  to  stop  playing.  The  little  servant, 
suddenly  ashamed  of  her  short  skirts  and  her  hau", 
stood  dazed  in  the  middle  of  the  circle,  pressing  close 
to  her  lover.  In  spite  of  her  provocative  dress,  she 
looked  sick  and  miserable,  and,  confronted  with  a  score 
of  red  faces  splitting  with  indecent  laughter,  she  was 
on  the  verge  of  tears.  Petit  Louis  was  not  angry  : 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  smiling,  as  though  he  were 
flattered  by  this  success. 

The  one-legged  beadle  shook  him  by  the  hand  : 

"  Well  done,  old  boy  !  That  will  strike  them  dumb, 
these  stick-in-the-muds.     I  declare,   I  respect  you  ! " 

The  workmen  at  once  agreed  that  Julie  looked  much 
better  in  her  new  clothes,  and  the  labourers,  the  farm 


204  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

hands,  who  had  despised  her  because  she  looked  poor, 
began  gazing  at  her  with  a  shade  of  deference  and 
vague  desire  now  that  she  looked  1-ke  a  woman  of  the 
streets.  Only  the  girls,  who  were  jealous,  went  on 
sneering  at  her. 

"  Well  now,  isn't  she  a  guy  ! " 

It  was  when  she  caught  their  envious  glances  that 
Julie  suddenly  realised  what  she  was.  She  espied 
herself  in  the  big  tarnished  looking-glass  which  de- 
corated the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  found  it  difficult 
to  recognise  herself,  so  wonderfully  was  she  trans- 
formed. Instinctively,  as  if  her  altered  appearance 
had  infused  a  new  soul  into  her,  she  preened  herself 
and  put  on  a  suggestive  smile.  Then  she  followed 
Louis  to  the  bar,  with  her  hand  on  her  hip,  swaying 
as  she  walked.  Instead  of  syrup  and  lemonade  she 
ordered  some  cheap  brandy,  which  she  swallowed  at 
a  gulp,  with  her  throat  burning,  and  then  she  began 
to  dance,  her  feet  turning  over  on  her  high  heels. 
From  the  adjacent  wine-shop  the  drinkers  ran  in  to 
watch  her,  hardly  able  to  believe  their  eyes. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  was  already  tipsy;  she  sang  as 
she  waltzed,  with  locks  of  hair  straggling  into  her  eyes, 
and  she  kissed  "The  Lath"  right  on  the  mouth  and 
called  him  "my  kid."  When  her  friend  the  dress- 
maker advised  her  to  go  home,  she  rebelled. 

"If  the  old  woman  wants  me  she  can  come  and  ask 
for  me,"  she  declared,  as  she  put  on  some  rouge  beTore 
the  mirror. 

They  all  agreed  with  her,  hoping  meanwhile  that 
things  would  turn  out  badly. 

A  quadrille  was  just  beginning  and  Julie  had  taken 
her  place,  pinching  her  skirt  and  pulling  it  up  above 
her  knees,  when  an  apparition  paralysed  the  two  musi- 
cians :  Baptistine  Pele  had  entered  the  dancing-hall. 
The  dancers  stood  still,  taken  aback,  and  stared  at 
mistress  and  maid.  The  widow  remained  in  the  door- 
way; she  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  blazed  wickedly.  Her 
cheeks  were  quivering  with  passion. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  205 

She  scanned  the  girls,  trying  to  find  JuHe.  Peals  of 
laughter  began  to  ring  out,  and  the  lads  nudged  each 
other. 

"Ah  !"  said  Mme.  Pele.     "Ah  !  Satan  !" 

She  had  only  just  recognised  her  servant  and  she 
stared  at  her,  open-mouthed,  bewildered,  almost  afraid. 
In  her  eyes  it  was  witchcraft,  a  trick  of  the  Devil. 

Julie  stood  with  her  arms  dangling  at  her  sides, 
livid  in  spite  of  her  make-up,  her  hair  clinging  to  her 
damp  forehead,  and  under  the  crude  glare  of  the  gas 
she  showed  the  distorted  face  of  a  barmaid  surprised 
by  a  police  raid.  She  wiped  her  face  with  her  hand, 
and  the  black  of  her  eyelashes  spread  over  it.  Her 
lips  were  quivering. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Petit  Louis,  drawing  near. 
"What  do  you  want  with  my  girl?" 

The  old  woman  did  not  flinch.  She  spoke  with  a 
hiss,  without  opening  her  lips  : 

"To  prison!"  she  raved.  "Both  of  you!  You 
good  for  nothing.  .  .  .  Snake.  ...  A  wretch  bom 
in  the  gutter  I  tried  to  save  !     Here,  Julie  ! " 

The  maid  obeyed,  whimpering;  she  looked  hideous, 
and  the  men,  whose  desire  she  had  provoked  before 
with  her  swaggering  airs,  now  meanly  sneered  at  her. 

"The  Lath"  tried  to  stop  her. 

"You're  not  thinking  of  going,  are  you?" 

But  the  widow  had  already  taken  Julie  by  the  arm, 
and  Milot  and  other  friends  caught  hold  of  Petit  Louis. 

"No  nonsense.    .    .    .    You  know  the  risk." 

The  wastrel,  allowing  himself  to  be  held  back, 
struggled  and  shouted. 

"I  won't  have  her  touched,"  he  bellowed.  "Leave 
me  alone,  I  want  to  do  her  in;  I'll  slash  her  open  like 
an  old  mattress.    ..." 

The  widow  did  not  hear  him  :  she  was  going  off  with 
her  sobbing  maid,  and  to  drown  the  wrangling,  the 
comet,  pufhng  out  his  checks,  went  on  with  the  quadrille. 

By  the  following  day,  the  whole  of  Barlincourt  knew 
of  the  scandal.     Small  crowds  even  formed  in  front 

o 


2o6  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

of  the  Peles'  house,  where  people  hoped  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  "the  Doll,"  as  Julie  had  been  nicknamed. 

At  the  King's  Domain  the  affair  gave  rise  to  a  ter- 
rible scene.  Francois  Dubourg  said  that  he  had  had 
quite  enough  of  it,  that  he  would  not  keep  a  convict 
in  his  employ  any  longer;  his  indignant  brother  re- 
proached him  harshly,  Mme.  Dubourg  intervened  with 
appeals,  Yvonne  wept.  ...  As  for  Adele,  she  was 
in  despair,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping,  unable  even  to 
cook  the  lunch.  The  novelist  caught  at  the  oppor- 
tunity and  departed,  slamming  the  doors. 

Julie  was  not  seen  for  a  week,  except  by  chance 
through  the  curtains.  The  widow  had  kept  her  in  the 
house,  and  Josephin,  with  his  inane  smile,  refused  to 
say  anything.  Petit  Louis  prowled  uneasily  round  the 
house,  and  Julie  from  her  kitchen  watched  him  with 
tear-dimmed  eyes. 

At  last,  one  evening,  regardless  of  the  risk,  she  half- 
opened  the  door  and  ran  to  the  comer  of  the  street  to 
kiss  him.     The  boy  had  a  shock  when  he  saw  her. 

"Oh  !    .    .    .    What  has  she  done  to  you?" 

The  girl  murmured  "Yes,"  and,  with  her  arms  hang- 
ing down  and  her  mouth  open,  she  began  to  weep  with 
the  long-drawn-out  wail  of  a  child. 

Her  golden  hair  was  gone.  Baptistine  had  cut  it 
off.  With  her  shaven  head,  her  white  face  and  her 
swollen  eyes,  she  stood  sobbing  before  her  lover,  whose 
only  inclination  was  to  laugh. 

"You  do  look  a  sight  \"  he  said. 

The  little  girl  moaned  louder  and  threw  herself 
mournfully  into  his  arms,  nestling  her  grotesque  head 
against  his  shoulder. 

"No,  don't  laugh  at  me !  I  am  too  miser- 
able.   ..." 

Clumsily  but  lovingly  he  embraced  her,  caressing 
her  bare  neck;  and  he  no  longer  thought  of  making 
fun  of  her,  now  that  he  felt  her  sobs  rising  and  falling 
against  his  breast.  He  felt  no  pity,  but  a  dull  rage 
hardened  his  heart. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  207 


It ' 


'The  w  .   .   .  the  old  w  .   .   .   !"  he  growled. 

Between  her  tears  Julie  was  telling  him  that  she 
had  been  obliged  to  submit,  that  the  widow  threatened 
to  send  her  back  to  the  Assistance  and  lodge  a  com- 
plaint against  her;  and  that  she  kept  insulting  her  all 
day  long. 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  window  opening  and  tore 
herself  from  her  lover's  arms. 

"It's  her,"  she  stammered.     "Good-bye!" 

And  she  disappeared  at  a  run.  Louis  did  not  see 
her  until  the  following  Sunday :  Baptistine  Pele 
dragged  her  to  ten  o'clock  Mass — a  thing  she  had  never 
done  before — to  exhibit  the  chastened  and  humbled 
girl  to  the  whole  community.  Hardly  anything  could 
be  seen  beneath  the  hat,  which,  being  now  too  large, 
flopped  down  to  her  eyebrows;  but  behind,  the  nape 
of  the  neck  showed  a  bald  space,  and  people  burst  out 
laughing,  while  urchins  shouted  "Yah  !  Yah  ! "  after  her. 
This  walk,  during  which  she  was  turned  into  a  laughing 
stock,  proved  an  unending  torture  to  Julie,  but  she 
said  nothing;  she  did  not  even  weep  any  more,  though 
her  poor  shamed  back  bent  under  the  general  derision. 

Petit  Louis,  from  the  wine-shop,  saw  her  passing  by, 
and  threw  his  glass  on  the  floor  to  relieve  his  fury. 
His  face  wore  such  a  look  that  the  Dumarchey  girl 
turned  her  eyes  aside  and  swept  up  the  pieces  with- 
out daring  to  say  a  word. 

"The  Lath,"  who  in  the  end  had  been  dismissed 
by  M.  Dubourg,  left  the  King's  Domain  that  same 
evening.     Ad^le  was  beside  herself  with  grief. 

"I  simply  can't  understand  the  master  sending  you 
away,"  she  lamented.  "He  used  to  be  so  easy-going, 
so  kind.  .  .  .  He  is  a  different  man  since  his 
brother  came  back.  He  said  that  he  had  had  enough 
of  this  scandal." 

"And  what  did  the  saint  say?" 

"Oh,  he   ...   he  is  like  God  Himself!" 

She  took  out  a  hundred-franc  note  and  handed  it 
to  her  nephew. 


2o8  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"  He  told  me  to  give  you  this  meanwhile.  And  that 
he  wanted  to  see  you  and  talk  to  you,  that  he  would 
find  work  for  you,  that  you  were  not  to  get 
bitter.    ..." 

Petit  Louis  listened  with  bowed  head. 

"  Kids  like  me,  you  see,"  he  mumbled  indistinctly, 
"instead  of  chucking  them  over  to  the  Assistance,  the 
parents  ought  to  drown  them.  They'd  be  less  un- 
happy. .  .  .  Well,  good-bye.  Auntie,  I'll  come  back 
and  see  you  some  time  this  week." 

"The  Lath"  went  to  live  with  the  Trembler  in  a 
hovel  plastered  with  mud,  and  began  to  look  for  work, 
but  only  in  a  half-hearted  fashion.  At  the  Aubernon 
works  the  overseer  refused  to  take  him  on,  saying  that 
he  had  received  orders  to  that  effect.  Petit  Louis 
roved  silently,  at  random,  through  the  streets,  or  else 
he  wandered  by  himself  in  the  Bois  Noisette.  In  the 
evening,  he  attended  the  saint's  meetings.  Magloire 
Dubourg  often  took  him  aside  and  gave  him  good 
advice.  These  were  moments  of  rare  comfort  for  the 
vagrant :  the  words  numbed  what  brain  he  had,  and 
with  his  mind  empty  of  thought  he  felt  reassured  and 
confident. 

More  often  than  not  he  did  not  understand  the 
saint's  sermons;  even  the  simplest  parables  were  too 
deep  for  him.  However,  one  discussion  about  Mme. 
Pele  fixed  itself  in  his  memory. 

A  convert  said  : 

"She  is  a  firm  believer,  and  yet  a  rotten  woman." 

Magloire  Dubourg  answered  : 

"He  who  prays  is  not  always  pious,  he  who  com- 
plains does  not  always  sufi'er.  God  will  judge  by  the 
heart,  not  by  the  lips.  Do  not  envy  the  fate  of  that 
false  Christian,  her  debt  grows  heavier  every  day,  and 
for  her  very  salvation,  it  would  be  better  for  her  to 
die." 

Without  knowing  it.  Saint  Magloire  had  signed  the 
death-warrant  of  the  bigot. 

"The  Lath"  still  saw  Julie  in  secret.     Some  nights 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  209 

he  went  up  to  her  room  as  of  old,  climbing  in  at  the 
kitchen  window,  which  the  maid  left  open;  and,  seated 
on  the  little  bed,  their  roughened  hands  clasped,  they 
talked  in  low  tones,  he  muttering  his  rage,  she  choking 
back  her  tears. 

"No  matter  if  I  half  kill  myself  with  work,  she 
wants  to  send  me  back  to  the  Assistance  with  a  letter 
where  she'll  tell  everything.  She  says  she  won't  have 
me  corrupting  her  son.  .  .  .  Then  they'll  put  me 
under  supervision  in  some  form,  to  clean  the  cattle- 
sheds." 

Her  companion  did  not  reply.  Gazing  vaguely 
before  him,  he  was  trying  to  think  it  over. 

"TeU  me,  my  dear,  what    shall  we  do?"  she  whis- 
pered distractedly.     "And  you  out  of  work,  too!" 
Petit  Louis  shook  his  head  : 

"The  saint  was  speaking  of  her  the  other  day.  .  .  . 
He  was  saying  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  die." 

"Pooh!"  breathed  the  girl.  "Don't  you  count  on 
that." 

"Remains  to  be  seen.    ..." 

Day  by  day  Petit  Louis  grew  gloomier  and  gloomier, 
and  his  aunt  was  frightened.  When  he  came  to  see 
her  she  watched  him  anxiously,  and  by  degrees  she 
gave  him  all  her  money,  thinking  it  might  keep  him 
from  going  wrong.  Julie  also  noticed  his  air  of  ab- 
straction. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked  him  at 
last,  one  night  when  he  was  even  gloomier  than  usual. 
"I'm  fed  up  with  it  all,"  he  burst  out.  "If  the 
saint  was  to  go  back  to  his  niggers  and  I  hadn't  got 
jrou,  I'd  go  off  with  him.  Don't  you  see,  it's  getting 
near  time  for  my  military  service.  They'll  put  me  in 
the  African  troops.  Well,  I  don't  feel  like  it.  I  don't 
want  to  leave  my  bones  in  the  Kef ! " 

"But  then,  what  will  you  do? "  wailed  Julie.     "You 
aren't  going  to  leave  me  here  ? " 
He  shook  his  head. 
"No,  what  we  need  is  enough  cash  for  the  two  of  us. 


210  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

To  go  away,  a  long  way  off,  so  that  they  can't  find  us 
again." 

She  nodded,  her  acquiescence,  all  her  will-power 
gone. 

"You  haven't  heard  the  saint  preach  his  sermons. 
.  .  .  Well,  he  says  one  hasn't  got  the  right  to  keep 
everything  for  oneself,  and  that  happiness  belongs  to 
everybody.  Well,  then,  why  should  Baptistine  sleep 
on  her  money-bags  while  I  rot  at  Bel  Abbes  and  you 
slave  in  some  farm  ?     Tell  me  that ! " 

"Don't  talk  so  loud,  she'll  hear  you,"  implored  the 
maid,  terrified. 

Petit  Louis  had  risen  to  his  feet. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  !" 

He  was  livid.  The  lamp  lighted  up  his  face  from 
below,  and  the  faded  tattooing  reappeared  on  his  stub- 
bom  forehead.     The  girl  looked  at  him,  trembling. 

"What  have  you  got  there  in  your  pocket?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  pulling  his  coat  together. 

Then  he  surveyed  her  for  a  moment. 

"Get  your  things  ready,"  he  said  simply. 

The  four  words  were  enough.  She  felt  as  though  a 
weight  had  fallen  on  her  shoulders  and  was  crushing 
her.  x\ll  her  strength  left  her.  There  was  not  a  drop 
of  blood  in  her  limbs,  and  her  teeth  began  to  chatter. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  asked  hoarsely. 

He  did  not  answer.  Julie,  haggard,  shuddered  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Petit  Louis  !  Petit  Louis  !"  she  cried  in  a  husky 
voice. 

But  he  had  left  the  room  already,  and  she  heard  his 
step  as  he  went  down  the  stairs.  She  dropped  on  her 
knees  bv  her  bedside,  overwhelmed,  and  murmured  : 

"My  God!     My  God!" 

She  started  suddenly  :  below  she  had  heard  a  creak- 
ing sound,  a  door  being  opened.  .  .  .  Clenching  her 
teeth,  burying  her  nails  in  her  flesh,  she  stifled  a  groan 
of  terror. 

■'My  man!" 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  2ii 

She  lay  down,  quivering,  and  put  her  ear  to  the 
floor.  She  was  biting  her  lips.  She  wished  she  could 
have  shut  her  eyes,  so  that  she  could  listen  more  in- 
tently, but  she  could  not  do  it;  against  her  will  her 
eyes  opened  wide  with  terror,  and  within  the  circle 
of  light  which  her  lamp  sent  forth  she  could  see  the 
trembling  of  her  thin  hand.  Her  whole  heart,  her 
whole  Ufe,  were  watching. 

Only  she,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  could  catch 
those  furtive  noises  :  by  that  almost  imperceptible 
creaking  she  could  follow  the  dreadful  progress  towards 
the  bed.  ...  Oh !  she  started  up.  .  .  .  She  had 
just  heard  a  heavier  step,  a  leap.  .  .  .  Then  a  hoarse 
cry,  quickly  stifled,  and  then  the  deadened  noise  of  a 
struggle,  the  sound  of  two  people  breathing,  a  foot  or 
a  fist  that  thudded  against  the  wall,  in  a  supreme  con- 
vulsion. 

The  noise  died  down.  .  .  .  She  felt  the  strain  of 
her  body  relaxing.  A  feeling  almost  of  relief  came 
upon  her.    ...    It  was  over.    .    ,    . 

But  at  that  moment  a  terrible  shriek  rang  through 
the  house  ;  the  old  woman  was  calling  for  help.  She 
had  probably  freed  herself  from  the  murderous  grasp, 
she  could  be  heard  rushing  about  the  room,  the  noise 
of  a  sinister  pursuit,  then  dull  blows,  groans,  the 
bound  of  a  fall.    .    .    . 

"  Help  !     Murder  ! " 

Another  voice  broke  forth  amid  the  rattle  of  shutters 
thrown  open  :  Josephin  was  calling  through  the  drawing 
room  window.  Then,  Julie,  beside  herself,  unconscious 
of  what  she  was  doing,  ran  down  the  stairs,  carrying 
her  lamp.  She  entered  the  room  at  a  bound;  but  she 
saw  the  blood,  and  drew  back. 

The  old  woman  was  still  moving  a  little,  her  throat 
was  cut.  At  that  moment  Josephin  appeared  behind 
the  maid,  in  his  shirt,  his  thin  legs  showing.  His  face 
was  distorted,  and  when  he  saw  the  corpse  he  began 
crying  out  again  : 

"  Mamma  !     Help  ! " 


212  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Petit  Louis,  leaning  against  the  window,  stood 
looking  at  them,  without  attempting  to  escape,  and 
unconsciously  he  wiped  his  hand,  from  which  the  blood 
was  trickling  down. 

"Well,"  he  was  saying,  "Wliat's  the  matter  with 
you? 

Dogs  began  to  bark  on  the  neighbouring  farms. 
Men  could  be  heard  running  up  and  calling  to  each 
other.  Young  Pele  was  still  bawling,  though  his 
voice  was  giving  out,  and  Julie,  losing  her  head,  also 
began  to  yell:  "Help!  Help!"  as  though  someone 
might  appear  to  save  her  lover. 

Adele  was  in  her  kitchen,  as  she  had  been  on  the 
evening  of  the  saint's  arrival,  when  she  heard  the  first 
shrieks.  Etienne  and  Milot  were  sitting  at  the  table, 
drinking. 

"  My  God  ! "  she  cried  out  in  alarm.  "  What's  hap- 
pening?" 

It  was  impossible  to  recognise  the  voices,  but  she 
understood  at  once,  in  a  flash  of  realisation.  She 
dropped  the  plate  she  was  wiping  and  collapsed  on  to 
a  chair. 

"There  you  are!  There  you  are!"  she  stuttered. 
"Louis  has  been  and  done  it!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

"To  do  good,  to  do  good  .  .  .  that  is  quite  right 
and  proper,"  grumbled  M.  Frangois  Dubourg,  who 
had  returned  exasperated  from  Paris,  "but  after  all 
it  is  none  of  my  business  to  pay  the  debts  of  Provi- 
dence." 

With  the  tip  of  his  walking  stick  he  dislodged  a 
pile  of  baby-linen  that  filled  an  arm-chair. 

"This  is  not  a  home  any  more,  it's  a  poor-house,  a 
charity  work-room." 

He  looked  at  his  friend  Jos. 

"Not  much  fun,  Barlincourt,  eh?" 

"Well  ..."  Van  den  Kris  was  evasive,  "if  one 
likes  this  sort  of  thing.    ..." 

"You  show  great  devotion  in  still  coming  to  see 
us." 

The  novelist  considered  for  a  moment,  shaking  his 
head  : 

"He  is  terrible,"  he  continued.  "He  wants  to 
reform  everything :  laws,  religion,  property,  govern- 
ment, labour,  education,  even  our  way  of  making 
soup.  ...  He  would  be  capable  of  setting  fire  to 
the  house  to  warm  some  wretched  creature.  I  some- 
times wonder  how  it  will  all  end." 

"But  why  don't  you  go  back  to  Paris?  You  do  not 
usually  stay  away  so  long." 

M.  Dubourg  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Go  back  to  Paris?  You  are  naive,  my  friend. 
Since  the  murder  the  papers  have  left  us  comparatively 
in  peace;  let's  hope  it  will  last.  .  .  .  But  he  would 
not  be  back  two  days  without  causing  a  scandal  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  or  presiding  over  a  meeting  on 
the  steps  of  the  Madeleine.  I  much  prefer  to  biiry 
myself  here." 

213 


214  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

The  fact  was  that  the  author  of  Mademoiselle 
Flamberge,  always  occupied  with  his  newspapers — or 
so  he  pretended — buried  himself  as  Httle  as  possible 
in  the  King's  Domain.  He  was  content  to  leave  his 
family  there,  which  caused  Mme.  Dubourg  to  say  : 

"Husbands  adore  the  countryside,  but  it  is  the 
wives  who  stay  there." 

"You  know  me,"  continued  M.  Dubourg.  "I  am 
an  easy  going  fellow,  but  my  brother  will  end  by 
making  me  loathe  goodness.  Since  he  settled  the  work- 
men, who  have  been  expelled  from  the  Cite,  in  my 
lodge,  I  have  taken  a  violent  dislike  to  the  poor. 
Why  should  they  suppose  that  something  is  owing 
to  them  because  they  are  poor?  It  is  idiotic.  Is 
there  any  obligation  for  the  poor  to  respect  the  rich  ? " 

"You  talk  like  a  book,"  approved  the  Dutchman, 
standing  with  straddled  legs,  an  old  sailor's  habit,  so 
he  declared,  which  had  been  acquired  through  the 
rolling  of  the  ship.  "In  the  first  place,  charity  is 
useless,  a  regular  swindle.  To  give  here  and  there 
is  just  like  trying  to  stop  the  onrush  of  tons  of  water 
into  a  ship  by  plugging  the  leak  with  paper.  .  .  . 
Your  brother  may  give  a  hundred,  a  thousand  times 
more,  he  will  not  lessen  the  misery  of  mankind  by  a 
single  tear.  If  Christ  had  been  nothing  more  than 
a  foolish  philanthropist,  His  only  thought  would  have 
been  to  succour  the  poor  devils  of  Jews  who  sur- 
rounded Him.  He  would  have  spent  all  His  time 
healing  lepers,  giving  back  sight  to  the  blind,  filling 
the  empty  baskets  of  the  fishers  and  the  wine-bottles 
of  Cana,  instead  of  presenting  a  new  teaching  to  the 
world.  His  career  on  earth  would  have  been  fruitless, 
and  History  would  have  retained  but  a  vague  memory 
of  a  strange  epoch  when  Judea  was  bursting  with 
victuals  and  sweating  from  too  much  drink.    ..." 

M.  Dubourg  made  the  classical  gesture  of  Hippo- 
crates refusing  the  presents  of  Artaxerxes. 

"I  implore  you  not  to  generalise,"  he  interjected, 
"no  philosophy,  no  ethics.    .   .   .    And,  above  all,  do 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  215 

not  pronounce  the  name  of  God  in  my  presence.  I 
swear  to  you  that  my  brother  is  turning  me  into  an 
atheist." 

Then,  rising,  he  added : 

"I  admired  him  so  much  when  he  was  in 
Africa.    ..." 

Life  in  the  King's  Domain  had  become  still  sadder 
since  the  murder  of  Mme.  Pele.  Adele,  who  had  been 
obliged  to  take  to  her  bed  for  several  days,  was  no 
longer  able  to  do  any  housework,  and  it  fell  to  the 
charwoman,  who  usually  undertook  the  heavier  tasks, 
to  take  charge  of  the  kitchen;  she  sent  up  impossible 
stews  and  shrivelled  joints,  and  caused  Mme.  Dubourg 
to  lose  her  appetite  altogether.  Yvonne  seemed  rest- 
less and  nervous,  and  burst  into  tears  on  the  slightest 
provocation.  Gerard  had  just  gone  back  to  Paris, 
whither  his  studies  summoned  him. 

The  villa  seemed  now  to  belong  much  more  to  the 
three  households  which  had  been  evicted  from  the 
Cite  and  taken  in  by  Saint  Magloire,  than  to  the 
Dubourg  family. 

The  refugees  began  to  complain  the  very  day  after 
they  took  up  their  quarters  in  the  lodge,  which  Petit 
Louis  had  vacated.  When  Etienne  forbade  the  urchins 
to  romp  about  the  lawn,  the  mothers  grumbled  that 
they  were  being  treated  "as  if  they  had  the  plague." 
At  every  turn  the  men  would  say:  "We  shall  complain 
to  the  saint." 

Their  noisy  existence  overflowed  from  their  little 
house  until  it  filled  the  whole  place.  Every  evening, 
quarrels  broke  out  in  the  ground-fioor  lodgings  :  the 
man,  who  was  a  drunkard,  yelled  threats  at  his  wife 
and  the  frightened  children  squalled  shrilly.  In  the 
next  household,  the  husband,  a  kindly  fellow,  played 
the  accordion  to  amuse  his  youngsters;  and,  for  an 
hour  after  the  neighbour's  disagreements  had  sub- 
sided, the  wheezy  instrument  could  still  be  heard 
whining  sentimental  ballads.  The  head  of  the  third 
'araily,  a  fanatic  adherent  of  Magloire  Dubourg,  was 


2i6  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

slightly  mad  :  in  the  evenings,  when  he  read  the  Gos- 
pels, he  donned  a  sort  of  white  tunic,  which  had  been 
made  by  his  wife,  but  in  this  garb  he  looked  much 
more  like  a  house-painter  than  a  bishop. 

The  Evangelist  was  still  receiving  large  gifts  from 
all  parts  of  Europe  :  money,  clothes,  parcels  with  food 
and  medicine;  and  he  had  turned  the  drawing  room 
into  a  kind  of  warehouse  from  which  he  drew  according 
to  his  needs.  He  undertook  tours  which  lasted  several 
days,  visiting  the  sick  and  bringing  help  to  the  aged. 

Since  he  felt  unable  to  do  as  much  good  by  himself 
as  he  would  have  wished,  he  had  begged  his  sister-in- 
law  to  accompany  him,  a  woman  being  better  able  to 
render  certain  services  than  a  man.  Marie  Louise, 
who  was  afraid  of  appearing  unworthy  to  this  man 
whose  every  act  was  an  example,  whose  every  word 
was  a  proof  of  goodness,  gave  her  consent.  An  ex- 
hausting life  now  opened  before  her.  Every  morning, 
the  saint  awakened  her  at  break  of  day.  They 
hun-iedly  swallowed  a  meagre  breakfast  and  set  out 
laden  witli  parcels.  Mme.  Dubourg,  with  her  eyes 
still  heavy  with  sleep,  oppressed  with  a  feeling  of 
nausea,  trotted  at  the  side  of  the  saint,  whose  strides 
were  enormous.  Barlincourt  lay  wrapped  in  silence, 
its  streets  wet  and  slippery.  Marie  Louise,  her  chin 
bitten  by  the  cold,  whipped  by  the  October  drizzle, 
gazed  with  envy  at  the  happy  villas  which  were  still 
sleeping.  The  farms  were  waking  up,  light  showing 
between  their  half-open  shutters.  In  the  sodden 
fields,  old  hay  ricks,  battered  by  the  wind,  still  slept 
heavily,  with  blond  and  dirty  strands  tumbled  across 
their  brows. 

More  often  than  not,  they  went  to  Paris.  The  rail- 
way carriages  still  retained  the  musty  smeU  of  nights 
of  travel.  Mme.  Dubourg  was  unable  to  endure  the 
stench;  huddled  in  a  corner  near  the  open  window, 
her  cheeks  blue  with  cold,  she  breathed  in  the  raw  air 
which  helped  her  to  overcome  her  faintness. 

In  the  crowded  districts,   the  arrival  of  the  saint 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  217 

was  soon  reported.  Women  shouted  the  news,  lean- 
ing out  of  the  windows  in  their  house- jackets; 
children  hailed  each  other  on  the  landings,  and  an 
avalanche  of  small  clogs  was  heard  rushing  down 
the  stairs. 

Very  much  against  his  wish,  the  Evangelist  was 
often  followed  by  a  band  of  strange  disciples,  who 
afforded  much  merriment  to  the  onlookers.  Notable 
among  them  were  an  old  fortune-teller,  who  went 
into  a  trance  the  moment  the  miracle  man  opened  his 
mouth;  and  a  neo-Greek  youth,  in  a  tunic  suitable  for 
the  "bal  des  Quat'-z  'Arts,"  whose  sole  doctrine  con- 
sisted in  living  on  raw  salad  and  going  barefoot.  A 
witch  proclaimed  everywhere  that  Saint  Magloire  was 
a  reincarnation  of  the  prophet  Daniel;  and  the  sham 
Greek  announced  that  he  would  help  the  saint  to 
regenerate  the  world  by  teaching  calisthenics,  anti- 
alcoholism,  and  the  weaving  of  linen  in  the  home. 

He  was  also  followed  by  poor  people,  sick  whom 
he  had  cured  previously,  beggars  whom  he  had  saved 
from  hunger;  and  when  the  Evangelist  went  into  the 
houses,  crowds  collected  on  the  pavemeut  outside  them. 

There  floated  through  these  working-class  houses 
a  smell  of  sinks  and  dogs'  mess.  The  walls  were 
sticky,  the  bannisters  slippery.  Brawling  never 
stopped  during  the  whole  day,  for  the  unfortunate 
lodgers  hated  each  other  and  the  noise  of  quarrelling 
voices  resounded  from  the  sixth  floor  down  to  the 
street,  passing  through  the  thin  brick  partitions  and 
the  resonant  floors. 

At  that  time,  in  the  poor  quarters,  the  first  cases  of 
an  unknown  illness  were  reported,  a  sort  of  influenza 
which  carried  off  the  victims  in  a  few  hours.  Some 
said  that  it  was  the  plague. 

The  saint  devoted  his  visits  primarily  to  those  wha 
were  dying  of  this  malady,  and  Marie  Louise,  afraid 
of  inhaling  the  infection,  held  her  breath. 

The  sight  of  these  horrors  inspired  her  with  a  pro- 
found disgust.     Her   candid    and    tender    heart    had 


2i8  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

already  changed  :  it  was  as  though  it  had  been  tar- 
nished. She  became  subject  to  fits  of  depression  and 
sudden  feehngs  of  resentment.  Her  chief  regret  in 
the  midst  of  all  this  squalor  was  that  she  had  not 
made   sufficient  use  of  her  opportunities  of  happiness. 

There  were  moments  when,  terrorised  by  the 
prophecies  of  the  saint,  she  told  herself,  in  the  room 
of  some  miserable  working  girl,  that  in  her  turn,  at 
some  time,  she  would  be  that  malodorous  rag;  and 
she  bent  over  the  pauper's  bed,  as  if  she  were  looking 
into  a  mirror  which  reflected  her  own  image.  Those 
withered  cheeks,  those  eyes  with  shrivelled  lashes, 
those  white  gums  swollen  with  rotting  teeth  :  so  might 
she  look  some  day.  .  .  .  She  would  see  no  sky  be- 
yond the  square  of  the  garret  window,  and  stoop  day 
in,  day  out  over  her  work;  and  her  whole  happiness 
would  lie  between  a  husband  who  beat  her,  and  a  wan 
baby,  whose  bottle  she  must  fill  with  bread  crumbs 
and  sugared  water,  for  want  of  milk. 

The  resignation  of  these  death-beds,  instead  of 
making  her  reflect  on  the  hazardous  destiny  of  her 
immortal  soul,  filled  her  Vvith  a  fierce  desire  to  live. 

"I  want  to  enjoy  what  I  have,"  she  told  herself 
with  a  kind  of  rage.     "I  want  to  be  happy." 

And  her  old  calm  happiness  no  longer  seemed  strong 
enough  to  satisfy  her  need. 

By  the  end  of  a  month  there  was  already  a  great 
change  in  Marie  Louise.  The  little  dimples  in  her 
cheeks,  where  smiles  had  always  seemed  to  be  hidden, 
were  no  longer  visible.  She  had  grown  thinner.  M. 
Van  den  Kris  noticed  her  new  air  of  bitterness  and 
determination. 

"To  be  sure,"  the  Dutchman  said  to  her  one  day, 
"you  wiU  never  be  able  to  stand  this  existence,  you 
will  fall  ill.  It  is  a  curious  fact,  but  saints  have 
always  been  the  same.  Read  the  Bollandists :  they 
jire  fuU  of  edifying  stories,  about  young  men,  touched 
by  Divine  Grace,  who  leave  their  old  mothers  dying  of 
sorrow  to  go  to  Libya  where  they  eat  locusts !    And 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  219 

such  people  are  canonised  !  You  know  that  nobody 
admires  your  famous  relative  more  than  I  do,  but  I 
ask  myself  whether  the  propagation  of  his  ideas  is 
worth  all  the  disturbance  it  is  causing.  ...  A  saint 
in  modem  society  is  a  freak.  ...  He  is  out  of  place, 
out  of  focus.  .  .  .  Look  here,  can  you  imagine  a 
giant  two  hundred  feet  high,  arriving  one  fine  morning 
in  Paris,  and  leaning  up  casually  against  the  Towers 
of  Notre  Dame?  For  a  week,  he  would  cause  a  sen- 
sation, but  after  a  month,  he  would  be  in  everybody's 
way  :  no  one  would  know  where  to  find  a  lodging  for 
him;  people  would  criticise  him  for  eating  too  much 
and  have  but  one  wish  :  to  get  rid  of  him  at  the 
earliest  opportunity.    ..." 

The  perturbation  in  the  midst  of  which  Barhncourt 
was  living  seemed  to  prove  that  the  pseudo-Dutchman 
was  right.  The  Evangelist,  though  unintentionally, 
had  plunged  the  small  country-side  into  chaos.  The 
workmen  in  the  factory  who  had  been  made  restless 
by  his  propaganda,  suffered  more  than  ever  from  the 
injustice  of  their  lot;  it  seemed  to  them  that  every- 
thing which  belonged  to  others  had  been  stolen  from 
them;  but  instead  of  waiting  for  future  lives  to  redress 
in  their  favour  the  balance  of  the  wrong  done  to  them, 
they  wanted  to  take  their  share  without  losiig  a 
moment's  time.  Though  the  sjoidicate  had  refrained 
from  giving  the  order  to  strike,  the  output  fell  from 
day  to  day,  and  M.  Aubernon  weUnigh  went  out  of 
his  mind  with  worry.  Mastering  his  wrath,  so  that 
the  leaders  should  not  gloat  over  him,  he  passed  like  a 
whirlwind  from  the  fitting  to  the  sewing  rooms,  from 
the  making  up  to  the  mounting  department,  but  he 
was  never  able  to  detect  anything.  Everyone  was  in 
his  place,  the  fitter  bent  over  his  vice,  the  saUmaker 
was  pinching  the  folds  of  his  splice,  but  no  one  was 
working.  The  file  of  the  fitter  moved  without  grip- 
ping, and  the  sail-maker  never  finished  his  ring.  An 
overseer  was  needed  to  stand  behind  each  workman. 

The  syndicate  of  sails  and  tarpaulins  had  come  to 


220  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

the  conclusion  that  they  ought  to  take  advantage  of 
this  agitation  to  put  forward  certain  claims.  A  dele- 
gation had  come  to  demand  that  the  staff  should 
control  the  bonuses  and  that  a  forty-four  hour  week 
should  be  granted.  M.  Aubernon  had  exclaimed  that 
"he  would  prefer  to  shut  up  shop,"  and  since  this 
interview  the  situation  had  grown  worse  than  ever. 

Mme.  Aubernon  did  not  hate  the  workmen  any  less 
than  her  husband.  However,  she  urged  on  him  the 
need  for  conciliation;  and  as  she  thought  that  Saint 
Magloire  alone  could  restore  peace,  she  moved  Heaven 
and  Earth  to  wrest  from  him  a  promise  to  come  one 
evening  to  the  chateau.  Once  there,  they  would  argue 
with  him  and,  with  the  help  of  statistics,  show  him  the 
rights  of  the  matter. 

The  single  meeting  which  took  place  was  enough  to 
discourage  the  manufacturers.  The  whole  company 
suffered  from  a  feeling  of  constraint.  The  guests  did 
not  dare  to  talk.  They  stared  curiously  at  the  old 
man,  who  stood  in  a  bent  attitude  at  the  window, 
with  his  clenched  fists  in  the  pockets  of  his  coat. 

Despite  his  wife's  imperious  looks,  M.  Aubernon 
was  loath  to  begin  the  discussion. 

"Come  on,  begin,"  she  whispered  urgently. 

But  he  only  coughed,  opening  his  mouth  as  if  to 
speak,  but,  in  the  end,  remaining  silent.  Outside, 
somebody  could  be  heard  singing  a  revolutionary  song. 

It  was  Mathieu,  who  was  bawling  at  the  bar  of  the 
Factory  Cafe.  The  workmen  for  some  time  past  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  making  the  old  man  drunk  and 
getting  him  to  sing  inflammatory  ditties  under  the 
windows  of  his  "benefactor." 

"A  lazy  dog,  whom  I  support  in  idleness  and  who 
gets  blind  drunk  three  times  a  week,"  the  manufac- 
turer stormed,  with  flaming  cheeks.  "And  they  call 
me  a  profiteer  ! " 

No  one  answered.     The  conversation  languished. 

Yvonne  and  M.  Georges  were  half  hidden  behind 
the  piano.     For  a  moment  the  young  man  turned  his 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  221 

head  away :  he  was  white  to  the  lips.  Stooping  over 
the  young  girl,  he  asked  her  in  a  toneless  voice : 

"Are  you  sure?     Perhaps  you  are  mistaken?" 

Fortunately,  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  them. 
All  glances  were  focused  on  the  saint.  At  last  the 
manufacturer  took  courage  : 

"  You  probably  know  that  things  are  very  bad  with 
my  workmen?"  he  said  brusquely  to  the  old  man. 
And  then,  off-hand,  unable  to  find  a  better  opening, 
he  added  : 

"You  should  tell  them  to  be  reasonable,  you  would 
be  doing  me  a  favour.    .    .    ." 

The  saint  surveyed  him  attentively  for  a  moment 
and  replied : 

' '  I  have  never  preached  anything  to  them  but  good- 
►rill,  perhaps  they  did  not  understand  me.  .  .  .  But 
yt)u  yourself  constantly  hear  it  preached  to  you  in 
church,  yet  are  you  sure  that  you  are  just?" 

M.  Aubemon  tried  to  argue,  but  he  lost  all  his 
will-power  when  he  felt  the  hypnotic  gaze  of  the  saint 
jesting  on  him.     He  was  only  able  to  stutter  : 

"  Allow  me   .    .    .    allow  me.    ..." 

His  wife  came  to  his  rescue  with  praises  for  his 
b^rneficence;  but  the  saint  harshly  reproached  her 
with  giving  alms  out  of  the  proceeds  of  fines  imposed  on 
izt  workmen,  and  they  took  an  icy  leave  of  each  other. 

On  that  evening  the  return  to  their  home  was  indeed 
jrlcomy.  All  the  lights  were  out  in  Barlincourt.  The 
r?ia  dripped  wearily  into  the  puddles.  Yvonne  walked 
alone  behind  her  parents;  she  saw  nothing.  All  the 
bccviils  of  the  evening  whirled  in  her  head. 

/IS  the  rain  in  a  sudden  squall  began  to  fall  more 
heavily  she  put  aside  her  umbrella,  exposing  her  chilled 
little  back  to  the  storm,  and  purposely  stepped  into  a 
pool  with  her  lightly-shod  feet.  She  would  have  been 
gia^i  to  catch  cold,  to  fall  ill. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  villa,  she  kissed  her 
parf-its  and,  swallowing  her  tears,  went  quickly  up  to 
h«r  room. 


222  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

She  remained  for  a  long  while  sitting  on  her  bed, 
her  arms  drooping  wearily  at  her  side.  Then,  for  the 
hundredth  time  perhaps,  she  stood  before  her  mirror 
and  scanned  her  figure,  searching  with  anxious  eyes 
at  the  level  of  her  waist  to  find  out  whether  already 
it  could  be  seen.   .   .   . 

•  •••••• 

The  workmen  heard — no  doubt  through  Milot — of 
the  interview  between  the  saint  and  their  employer, 
and  they  concluded  from  it  that  the  Evangelist  was 
on  their  side.  The  excitement  increased,  meeting 
after  meeting  was  held;  and  in  the  end,  on  a  rowdy 
Saturday,  a  general  strike  was  declared. 

To  stiffen  the  movement  in  Barlincourt  the  syndi- 
cate, not  content  with  the  saint,  promptly  summoned 
Comrade  Lousteau,  who  was  received  by  a  delegation 
as  he  alighted  from  the  Paris  train. 

The  first  glance  of  the  Comrade  as  he  left  the  station 
fell  on  a  wall  on  which  lines  of  bills  were  posted 
bearing  "Long  Live  the  Strike,"  in  five-inch  letters; 
and  this  at  once  put  him  in  a  good  humour. 

"Very  good,"  he  said  to  the  militant  group,  "very 
good  indeed ! "  They  bridled  with  pleasure  at  the 
compliment,  for  Lousteau  was  a  connoisseur.  He  had 
been  dismissed  from  the  Postal  Servdce,  was  a  former 
delegate  of  the  C.G.T.  and  had  twice  been  beaten  at 
the  legislative  elections;  he  now  belonged  to  the  ex- 
treme Left  of  the  party,  and  compared  with  him  the 
most  advanced  syndicalists  seemed  lukewarm.  His 
profession  might  have  been  summed  up  by  the  word 
"orator,"  for  he  was  not  known  to  possess  any  other 
occupation  or  resources. 

If  the  miners  of  Anzin  declared  a  strike,  if  the 
Union  seamen  of  Marseilles  left  their  ships,  if  the 
farmers  of  the  Landes  started  an  agitation,  if  at  the 
arsenal  of  Brest  or  on  the  railways  of  Dijon  the  men 
showed  signs  of  an  ugly  temper,  Lousteau  would  be 
seen  arriving  with  his  painter's  beard,  his  bald  head, 
and  negligently  flowing  black  tie,  that  had  become  so 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  223 

popular  in  working-class  circles.  He  at  once  turned 
his  attention  to  the  most  urgent  business,  which  was 
to  put  the  worst  possible  complexion  upon  everything. 

He  was  like  a  general  taking  command  of  an  army; 
he  arrived  with  his  plan  of  campaign  ready  formed  : 
immediate  cessation  of  work,  meetings,  communist 
soup-kitchens,  compulsory  control  of  the  strikers' 
cards;  in  each  section,  picketing,  forced  stoppage  of 
trafhc  by  all  means  available,  and  the  hunting  out  of 
"blacklegs."  Then,  if  all  this  were  not  sufficient,  he 
had  recourse  to  processions  on  the  pubhc  highway, 
and  this  secured  his  triumph  :  the  dragoons  usually 
arrived  the  very  next  day.  Comrade  Lousteau  then 
took  the  first  train  back,  for  the  place  of  a  general  is 
not  with  the  outposts. 

He  was  thus  able  to  boast  of  great  victories  :  he 
had  stirred  up  to  revolt  peasants,  metallurgists,  dockers, 
vine-growers,  shoemakers,  and  even  soldiers  who  had 
been  transferred  from  one  garrison  to  another.  His 
speeches  roused  crowds  to  fever-heat,  for  this  man 
who  displaj-ed  a  rather  limited  mtelligence  when  he 
was  sitting  down,  blossomed  out  into  a  kind  of  genius 
as  soon  as  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  needed  a  platform, 
as  the  priestess,  Pythia,  needed  her  tripod.  An 
inspired  enthusiasm  took  possession  of  him  and  he 
shouted  out  anything  that  occurred  to  him,  with  his 
heart  bursting  and  his  head  on  fire. 

Beating  his  breast,  as  though  offering  himself  up  to 
unjust  judges  and  fratricidal  bullets,  he  poured  forth 
imprecations,  prayers,  complaints  and  defiance;  and 
suddenly,  as  though  through  a  rift  in  the  storm,  he 
found  the  words  of  a  poet  to  talk  of  the  future  city  : 
a  cross  between  a  Pastoral  and  a  revolutionary 
pamphlet.  Oh  !  what  a  wonderful  future !  .  .  . 
Machines  viTcathed  in  ivy  by  young  girls,  revolved  of 
their  own  accord,  and  the  red  guards  went  away  with 
white  lilac  stuck  in  the  butts  of  their  rifles.  .  .  .  But 
the  avaricious  "bourgeois"  rises  in  front  of  them  to 
forbid  the  outcasts  entrance  to  the  Elysian  fields.     See 


224  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

them  grinning,  while  before  them  passes  the  famished 
herd  of  mothers,  striving  in  vain  to  press  a  drop  from 
their  dry  breasts.    .    .    . 

Women  sobbed  and  men  clenched  their  fists. 

These  words  falling  on  overwrought  minds,  quickly 
bore  fruit.  The  people  had  been  told  that  the  hour 
was  near — it  was  not  clear  what  hour.  The  farmers 
had  been  told:  "Divide  the  land  among  you!"  the 
workmen:  "Occupy  the  factories!"  and  all  to  such 
good  purpose  that  excited  old  soldiers,  embittered 
mothers  and  young  lads,  boiling  over  with  ardour  and 
self  sacrifice,  were  led  to  acts  of  violence;  so  that  a 
score  or  so  of  workmen  were  still  in  prison  for  the 
eloquence  of  Lousteau,  and  credulous  recruits  were 
dying,  forgotten  under  the  sun  of  Bel-Abbes. 

Only  a  few  old-fashioned  syndicalists  and  suspicious 
anarchists  looked  askance  at  Lousteau;  they  had  seen 
so  many  rabid  revolutionaries,  who  had  ended  by 
entering  the  Government.  All  the  others,  however, 
imreservedly  admired  this  speculative  revolutionary. 

All  along  the  main  street  passers-by  turned  round 
to  look  at  the  small  procession,  and  Comrade  Lousteau 
who  regarded  this  curiosity  as  a  personal  tribute  was 
flattered.  The  citizens  did  not  know  the  agitator  by 
name,  for  the  Socialist  papers  were  the  only  ones  which 
talked  about  him;  but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  strikers 
was  more  than  enough  to  instil  disquiet  into  their 
minds. 

"If  Lousteau  takes  a  hand,  look  out  for  trouble!" 
said  the  Aubernon  workmen,  smiling  confidently. 

The  orator  was  welcomed  in  the  back  premises  of 
the  shop  where  the  strike  Committee  had  taken  up 
its  quarters,  for  the  Dumarchey  girl  had  refused  to 
lend  her  hall.  He  was  at  once  put  in  possession  of 
the  facts. 

He  asked  for  divers  information  about  the  saint, 
whose  ascendancy  over  the  strikers  was  well  known 
to  him;  and  decided  to  make  use  of  him.  Mathieu 
was    introduced  to  him  as  a  matter  oi  curiosity,  an 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  225 

honorary  striker,  since  he  no  longer  did  any  work; 
and  the  ex-soldier,  glass  in  hand,  described  in  a 
humorous  fashion  the  beginnings  of  Aubernon. 

"It  might  be  useful  to  you  in  your  speeches  and 
it  would  make  people  laugh.  .  .  .  Just  imagine, 
a  man  who  has  never  given  himself  time  to  Uve  pro- 
perly. ...  A  mercenary,  nothing  more.  ...  A 
man  without  dignity.  .  .  .  And  it  isn't  as  if  he 
had  known  how  to  behave.  In  all  the  time  he  worked 
with  us,  in  the  days  when  Krantz  was  boss,  I  never 
saw  him  pay  for  a  round  of  drinks.  Everything  went 
into  the  Savings  Bank,  just  like  a  house-servant." 

That  same  evening,  Lousteau  actually  made  use  of 
Mathieu  in  his  speech.  Pointing  him  out  to  the 
crowd  of  strikers,  where  he  sat  below  the  platform, 
he  cried  in  a  tone  of  contemptuous  pity  : 

"Look  at  this  miserable  slave,  this  blind  toy  of  an 
arrogant  master.  .  .  .  Look  at  his  wretched  plight 
after  forty  years  of  servitude.  That  is  all  that  the 
luckiest  among  you  can  look  forward  to  :  the  situa- 
tion of  an  old  jester  at  the  Court  of  your  Potentate." 

And  Mathieu,  with  swimming  eyes,  reeking  of 
brandy,  nodded  approval,  greatly  touched  and  proud 
of  hearing  himself  talked  about. 

The  covered  market  where  the  meeting  took  place 
seethed  with  a  dense  crowd.  A  vapour  of  stale 
breath,  of  sweat  and  smoke,  floated  round  it.  Men 
had  climbed  on  to  the  roof,  sitting  astride  the  iron 
girders.  Two  powerful  acetylene  lamps  illumined 
the  platform  with  a  harsh  glare.  The  hall,  in  the 
shadow,  was  full  of  turmoil. 

At  each  pause  in  Lousteau's  speech,  an  ovation 
broke  forth.  With  the  clever  intuition  which  dis- 
tinguishes leaders  of  men,  he  had  divined  that  he 
must  speak  to  them  chiefly  of  the  saint,  and  that  his 
name  alone  was  capable  of  swaying  them.  Leaning 
over  them,  he  seemed  to  scent  their  thoughts,  to 
breathe  in  their  appeal. 

It  was  no  longer  Lousteau,   it  was  no  longer  the 


226  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Syndicate,  that  presided  over  the  meeting;  it  was 
Magloire  Dubourg.  It  was  no  longer  Barlincourt  on 
strike  which  reared  itself  before  the  employer :  it 
was  the  Saint.  He  invoked  his  name  everywhere. 
"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"  became  a  Marxist 
formula  and  "Neither  God,  nor  master,"  a  text  from 
the  Gospel. 

The  audience,  in  a  state  of  supreme  exaltation, 
cheered  without  ceasing.  Amid  the  stamping  of  feet, 
"Long  live  Saint  Magloire"  and  "Long  live  the 
strike"  merged  into  one.  All  were  certain  of  victory, 
since  they  were  assured  that  the  saint  was  with  them. 
The  strong  voice  of  Lousteau  dominated  the  noise. 

"The  rotting  society  which  feels  its  power  giving 
way  here,  as  it  is  giving  way  everywhere,  may  seek 
to  grind  us  down  by  famine;  it  may  call  on  its  troops 
to  threaten  us  with  powder  and  shot :  we  shall  con- 
tinue to  fight.  Let  them  dare  to  accuse  us  of  dis- 
turbing the  public  peace,  they  who  mass  their  bayonets 
against  us,  while  we  only  oppose  them  with  the  staff 
of  the  Good  Shepherd  ! " 

At  last  Lousteau  sat  down,  exhausted.  Prolonged 
applause  forced  him  to  come  back  and  bow  his  thanks, 
like  an  artist.  Then  one  part  of  the  crowd  began 
singing  the  "Internationale,"  while  the  people  from 
the  Cite,  who  were  closely  packed  in  the  background, 
shouted  a  h3^mn. 

Issue  being  thus  joined,  the  strike  rapidly  spread  to 
two  small  factories  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  Barlin- 
court soon  looked  as  though  it  were  in  a  state  of  siege. 

Mounted  policemen  rode  about  the  streets.  Every 
morning,  when  the  workshops  opened,  there  were 
scenes  of  brawling. 

At  midday,  instead  of  the  noisy  procession  of 
workmen  on  their  way  to  dinner,  the  housewives 
could  be  seen  going,  soup-can  or  saucepan  in  hand, 
to  the  communist  kitchens.  But  after  a  week's  stop- 
page the  strike  funds  gave  out  and  the  canteen  had 
to  shut  down. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  227 

Resistance  grew  painful.  Hollow-cheeked  worlanen 
could  be  seen  returning  mechanically  to  their  closed 
factories,  like  dogs  going  back  to  an  empty  bowl. 

Magloire  Dubourg  heard  of  their  distress.  He 
turned  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  into 
money  and  came  to  the  assistance  of  the  famished 
strikers.  It  was  all  that  was  needed  to  destroy  the 
last  remaining  shreds  of  his  reputation  in  Barlincourt. 

"He  is  a  communist,"  the  peasants  said  of  him. 

And  that  word  "communist"  sent  a  shiver  through 
these  families  of  poor  people  who  possessed  scarcely 
anything,  as  though  Red  bands  were  about  to  deprive 
them  of  the  last  they  had,  even  to  their  imitation 
bronze  clocks  and  the  baby's  shoes. 

The  strike  continued,  without  serious  affrays.  The 
fanatical  followers  of  Saint  Magloire,  who  lived  in  the 
Cite,  were  the  means  of  depriving  the  movement  of 
any  violence,  for  their  inertia  paralysed  the  others. 
They  awaited  the  capitulation  of  their  employer  with 
confident  resignation;  they  did  not  raise  their  voices 
at  the  meetings  and  refused  to  lie  in  wait  for  "black- 
legs" and  to  kick  them  homewards  when  they  left 
the  factory. 

Lousteau,  to  rouse  them  from  their  apathy,  held 
meeting  after  meeting :  finally  he  organised  a  de- 
monstration on  the  high  road,  a  sort  of  procession 
without  canopy  or  flowers,  but  accompanied  by  h5mins 
and  banners;  and  then  the  first  skirmish  took  place. 
"We  are  entering  upon  the  period  of  results,"  said 
Lousteau  th-  t  evening  with  satisfaction.  "  If  only 
there  were  fifty  towns  like  this  in  France,  bourgeois 
society  would  be  at  its  last  gasp." 

From  the  first  day,  Barlincourt  had  taken  sides  : 
for  and  against.  Milot,  without  hesitation,  had  chosen 
the  group  opposing  his  employer.  He  was  for  the 
strike,  even  before  it  had  been  voted,  and  on  the  day 
of  Lousteau's  arrival,  he  had  made  himself  conspicuous 
by  his  enthusiasm,  hailing  the  agitator  with  full- 
throated  applause  and  wearing  a  red  flower  in  his  coat. 


228  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"  If  only  that  scoundrel  hadn't  a  wooden  leg ! " 
fumed  M.  Aubernon. 

Milot  could  not  bear  to  remain  a  mere  eye-witness 
of  this  upheaval,  though  he  had  no  right  to  take  part 
in  a  strike  of  tarpaulin  and  ropemakers,  being  after  all 
only  a  porter  and  beadle.  He  therefore  promptly 
organised  a  little  meeting  of  his  own  :  an  assembly  of 
ex-service  men  to  protest  against  the  African  cam- 
paign. 

This  proved  a  disastrous  evening  for  the  Cafe 
Dumarchey.  Milot,  who  had  been  drinking  all  the 
afternoon  to  set  himself  going,  proposed  the  formation 
of  a  "War  on  War"  group,  open  to  all  who  demanded 
general  disarmament  and  the  brotherhood  of  nations; 
but  a  drayman,  who  had  been  mobilised  as  a  motor- 
driver,  having  expressed  a  desire  to  move  a  resolution 
to  the  same  effect,  was  shouted  down  by  the  cripple 
as  a  coward  who  skulked  behind  the  lines,  a  ninny 
and  a  hermaphrodite,  and  was  ordered  to  hold  his 
tongue.  As,  however,  he  did  not  sit  down  quickly 
enough,  Milot  threw  a  bottle  at  his  head.  "That's 
the  way  we  throw  hand-grenades,  you  muck  ! " 

The  meeting  ended  in  a  hideous  brawl,  the  ex- 
soldiers  and  the  others  belabouring  each  other  mid 
cries  of  "Down  with  War!" 

The  workmen,  next  day,  broke  the  windows  of  the 
workshops  with  stones  and  attacked  an  overseer,  who 
was  picked  up  with  a  fractured  arm.  The  prefect  was 
obliged  to  send  for  a  detachment  of  infantry  to  guard 
the  factory.  The  strike  was  now  well  under  way, 
and  Lousteau,  pleased  with  this  new  success,  was  able 
to  depart  in  peace  :  he  took  train  for  the  Dauphine, 
where  the  workers  in  the  paper-mills  were  expecting 
him. 

Magloire  Dubourg  had  stood  aside  altogether  from 
the  strike.  His  only  part  in  it  had  been  to  relieve 
distress,  and  incidentally,  on  one  occasion  he  had 
addressed    some    workjnen     who     were     harassing    a 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  229 

"blackleg."  Syndicalists  had  grumbled  then  that  he 
was,  "letting  them  down." 

Wlien  the  Evangelist  was  not  absent  on  a  round  of 
charitable  visits,  the  converts  of  the  Cite  made  a  prac- 
tice of  paying  their  respects  to  him  at  the  King's 
Domain,  bringing  in  their  wake  unbelievers  and 
atheists,  who  had  never  approached  him  before  and 
who  now  came  to  see  him  because  they  had  nothing 
better  to  do.  They  would  find  him  smoking  out  a 
bee-hive  or  working  in  the  kitchen-garden  with  a  blue 
apron  tied  round  his  waist. 

The  day  following  the  riot  they  came  in  greater 
numbers  than  usual,  downhearted  and  fractious. 

"  Ah,  if  only  we  had  the  upper  hand  ! "  murmured  a 
workman,  a  man  of  fifty,  gaunt  and  leaden-faced. 

"Well  .  .  .  what  would  you  do ?"  asked  the  saint, 
who  was  pruning  a  shrub. 

A  gleam  irradiated  the  eyes  of  the  militant  workman. 

"What  would  we  do?  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  Every  dog 
has  his  day.  .  .  .  Revenge  !  It  would  be  they  that 
would  have  to  sweat  and  kill  themselves  with  work, 
,    .    .    they  have  Uved  long  enough  on  our  misery." 

"And  is  that  all?"  replied  the  saint,  returning  the 
gardening  shears  to  the  pocket  of  his  blue  apron.  "Is 
the  society  of  which  you  dream  any  more  just  than 
the  other?  Tell  me,  will  the  world  be  better  when 
you  have  replaced  this  society  without  virtue  by  a 
society  without  morals?  Listen  to  me :  What  you 
need  to  do  is  to  convince  your  opponents,  not  to 
triumph  over  them.  ...  If  the  upheaval  of  the  old 
world  must  be  limited  to  a  fight  between  the  rich, 
who  want  to  keep  all  and  the  oppressed,  who  want  to 
take  all,  what  does  it  matter  to  me  which  of  two 
hatreds  may  gain  the  victory?  I  do  not  want  to 
choose  between  the  ferocity  of  full  coffers  and  the 
cupidity  of  empty  hands.    ..." 

"All  the  same,"  argued  the  workman,  "one  can't 
look  on  and  let  them  gorge  themselves,  without  saying 
a  word.    .    .    .    Are  we  all  equal,  yes  or  no?" 


230  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"More  equal  than  you  think,  my  man.  Not  equal 
in  the  short  passage  of  one  life,  but  equal  in  eternity. 
...  Is  the  weakling  the  equal  of  the  strong  man, 
is  the  fool  the  equal  of  the  intelligent  man?  No,  is 
not  that  true?  But  their  power  does  not  last,  and 
fate  grants  it  but  once.  If  they  take  an  unfair  ad- 
vantage of  it  to  enslave  their  brothers,  they  are  guilty 
of  folly  and  crime  at  the  same  time;  because,  having 
oppressed  others,  they  will  to-morrow  be  oppressed 
in  their  turn.  The  very  interest  of  the  rich  man  is  to 
proclaim:  "Neither  rich  nor  poor,"  because  soon  he 
will  himself  be  poor.  Verily  the  benefactor  benefits 
himself.  As  long  as  this  truth  has  not  entered  the 
hearts  of  men,  there  wiU  be  on  this  earth  none  but 
slaves  and  executioners.    .    .    . " 

Each  sermon  brought  him  new  converts,  because 
in  days  of  suffering  men  search  always  and  ever5rwhere 
for  hope. 

In  the  Cite  an  important  group  of  fanatics,  entirely 
devoted  to  the  ideas  of  the  Evangelist,  had  been 
formed.  Such  exaggerated  virtue  reigned  in  this  sect 
that  it  had  become  the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole 
country-side.  Their  edifying  mode  of  life  had  in  fact 
something  abnormal  and  scandalous  about  it.  They 
seemed  to  live  by  a  sort  of  inverted  common  sense, 
outside  the  pale  of  humanity.  The  little  houses  which 
were  formerly  alive  wdth  the  noise  of  their  joys  and 
their  quarrels,  now  lay  silent  and  sad.  Their  inhabi- 
tants never  committed  a  single  bad  deed,  not  the 
slightest  peccadillo  :  it  was  as  if  they  were  no  longer 
alive. 

The  strike  had  found  them  penniless,  for  they  de- 
spised thrift  and  had  faith  in  God.  "Take  therefore 
no  thought  for  the  morrow  :  for  the  morrow  shall  take 
thought  for  the  things  of  itself."  But  He  Who  feeds 
the  birds  of  the  air  and  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  them  and,  but  for  Magloire 
Dubourg,  they  would  have  starved. 

Devoid  of  pride,  devoid  of   ambition,  knowing  well 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  231 

that  as  the  Gospel  has  it,  they  could  not  add  one  cubit 
to  their  stature,  they  Hved  in  the  state  to  which  it  had 
pleased  Providence  to  call  them  and  desired  nothing 
more.  Humbly,  they  enjoyed  their  mediocrity. 
Parents,  whose  sons  were  being  educated  in  higher 
schools,  had  withdrawn  them,  thinking  that  they 
were  sinning  through  pride  in  trying  to  change  their 
station  in  life.  They  ate  without  greediness;  the 
couples  lived  together  in  continence;  and,  to  free 
their  hearts  from  old  lies  that  weighed  heavily  upon 
them,  husbands  and  wives  had  made  painful  confes- 
sions to  each  other  which  would  taint  their  whole  lives 
with  mutual  suspicion  and  regrets. 

Their  very  gentleness  was  exasperating.  No  matter 
what  might  be  said  to  them,  how  they  might  be  in- 
sulted or  ill-treated,  they  accepted  everything  with 
resignation,  and  pitied  those  who  offended  them. 
That  these  violent  men,  these  irritable  women  should 
have  been  transformed  to  such  an  extent  in  a  few 
months,  was  perhaps  the  greatest  miracle  achieved  by 
the  saint,  and  certainly  the  most  incontrovertible. 

"They  are  not  human  beings  any  more,  they  are 
Iambs,  they  are  mussels,"  clamoured  Milot,  whose 
nerves  were  set  on  edge  by  this  forbearance. 

And  when  he  was  informed  that  these  peculiar 
strikers  refused  to  join  in  hunting  out  the  traitors 
who  still  worked  for  the  extortioner — as  he  called  his 
employer — he  grumbled  indignantly  : 

"Never  mind,  at  the  great  distribution  of  kicks 
somewhere,  I  know  some  people  who  can  come  with 
baskets.    ..." 

It  seemed  that  when  this  embryo  society  had  been 
freed  from  its  sheath  of  sins,  its  nerves  had  also  been 
removed.  Milot  was  right :  these  bodies  without 
desires  were  no  longer  men. 

The  hostility  against  Saint  Magloire  was  on  the 
increase  in  Barlincourt.  All  those  who  were  afraid 
of  the  strike  accused  the  Evangelist  of  having  set  it 
on  foot;    some  of  the  workmen,   discouraged,   began 


232  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

to  turn  their  backs  on  him.  Shopkeepers  and  peasants 
whispered  to  each  other  all  manner  of  abominable 
things.  Allusions  were  made  to  the  frequent  absence 
of  Mme.  Dubourg  and  the  Evangelist,  and  smiles  ex- 
changed when  the  novelist  went  to  catch  his  train. 

"He's  more  thick-headed  than  a  prize-bull,"  old 
wags  with  clean  shaven  faces  jested  on  the  market 
place. 

And  the  others  answered  philosophically  : 

"Pooh  !  there  are  never  more  than  two  cuckolds  in 
one  household.    ..." 

Young  Moucron,  puckering  his  obstinate  forehead, 
described  the  death  of  his  father  in  his  own  way. 

"The  saint  came  with  his  tomfooleries  to  his  bed- 
side when  he  was  as  bad  as  bad.  I  had  to  chuck  him 
out.  ...  It  may  be  it's  that  performance  which 
caused  his  death,  poor  old  fellow.    .    .    ." 

When  Magloire  Dubourg  travelled  about  the 
country-side,  people  did  not  greet  him  as  they  had  done 
heretofore.  Only  the  old  women  crossed  themselves 
when  he  passed.  Youthful  labourers,  hiding  carefully, 
sometimes  shouted  "  Yah,  Yah  ! "  from  afar,  to  show 
the  girls  that  they  were  not  afraid.  And  directly  he 
saw  the  saint  the  Trembler  took  to  flight,  fearing  no 
one  knew  what. 

Of  all  the  sufferers  who  had  been  healed  by  the 
saint,  only  the  blind  man  had  returned  to  the  King's 
Domain  :  and  he  had  come  to  ask  for  money. 

The  Pele  case  came  before  the  Assizes  in  November. 
The  bill  against  the  girl  Julie  had  been  thrown  out; 
Louis  alone  had  to  answer  for  the  murder,  without 
accomplices. 

The  trial  had  attracted  a  large  public,  for  it 
became  known  that  Saint  Magloire  would  be  called 
as  a  witness.  People  had  even  come  from  Paris. 
Immediately  the  doors  were  opened  a  band  of  strikers 
from  Barlincourt  invaded  the  places  reserved  for  the 
public;    and  this  preliminary  scuffle  showed  at   once 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  233 

that    there   would    be    trouble    before    the    day   was 
over. 

A  livid  light  fell  from  the  wide  bay  windows  and 
gave  a  clear  front  view  of  the  prisoner  as  he  sat 
between  two  gendarmes.  His  hair  had  been  cropped 
and  the  shameful  tattoo-marks  stood  out  against  the 
pale  brow.  The  jurors,  scarcely  visible  in  the  gloom 
of  the  court,  faced  him. 

The  president,  leaning  heavily  on  the  table,  with 
his  back  bent,  followed  the  trial  in  a  half-slumber, 
his  head  bowed,  so  that  the  audience  could  only  see 
the  lower  part  of  his  face,  bulging  with  fat.  At  his 
left,  a  weazel  faced  assessor  wearing  eyeglasses,  looked 
alternately  at  the  witnesses  and  the  murderer  with  a 
fixed  smile,  in  which  sexual  cruelty  and  stupidity 
were  mingled.  The  other  assessor  appeared  to  be 
sketching  something. 

Behind  the  tribunal,  above  a  plaster  figure  of  the 
Republic,  a  bull's  eye  window  cut  out  its  sinister  rim 
on  the  sky. 

"A  regular  guillotine  window,"  jested  the  Advocate- 
General. 

The  latter  was  a  man  of  fine  figure,  who  waved  his 
drooping  sleeves  while  he  talked.  He  was  eloquent, 
harsh,  arrogant,  and  when  he  questioned  a  witness 
even  for  the  defence,  he  never  let  himself  go  until  he 
had  extracted  from  him  all  that  could  incriminate 
Petit  Louis. 

"Thank  you,  M.  le  President,  that  was  all  I  wished 
to  know,"  he  said,  sitting  down. 

And,  looking  at  the  jurors,  he  shook  his  head  sig- 
nificantly. 

The  murderer,  hunched  in  the  dock,  with  clenched 
fists  and  fixed  gaze,  never  took  his  eyes  off  from  this 
red-faced  man  who  was  bent  on  destroying  him. 

At  moments,  his  rage  carried  him  away  :  he  sud- 
denly sprang  to  his  feet,  and  leaning  forward,  with  a 
malignant  look  on  his  face,  and  his  arms  held  stiffly 
out  he  began  to  shout;   he  gave  the  lie  to  the  witness, 


234  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

held  his  ground  before  the  Prosecutor,  thrust  aside 
his  counsel,  as  though  he  were  writhing  to  escape 
from  the  tentacles  which  were  closing  in  upon  him. 

"Come,  that  will  do,  keep  quiet,"  stormed  the 
President,  hammeriag  on  his  desk  like  a  disturbed 
school  usher.   "  You  will  speak  when  you  are  questioned." 

"All  the  same,"  choked  Petit  Louis  in  a  spent  voice, 
"they  are  not  going  to  cut  my  throat  without  allow- 
ing me  to  defend  myself  ! " 

"That  is  your  counsel's  business." 

The  latter  thereupon,  visibly  touched,  half  rose  to 
his  feet  and  gratefully  inclined  his  head.  He  also  bowed 
to  the  Attorney-General  after  the  latter  had  roughly 
handled  him,  he  bowed  to  the  witnesses,  he  bowed  to 
the  jurors  :  with  a  little  encouragement  he  would 
have  bowed  to  the  gendarmes.  This  was  his  first 
appearance  at  the  Assizes  and  he  was  counting  on 
this  notorious  case  to  launch  him.  Every  time  he 
stood  up,  nervously  fingering  his  notes,  to  answer  the 
prosecution,  his  agitation  almost  suffocated  him; 
and  several  times  he  was  obliged  to  stop  short,  lost 
in  his  headings,  his  proofs  and  deductions,  forgetting 
where  he  had  begun  and  not  knowing  how  to  finish. 
Behind  him,  with  his  chin  sunk  on  his  arm,  looking 
out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  the  accused  listened, 
without  understanding.  He  gave  the  impression  of 
a  sheep  delivered  to  the  mercy  of  a  clumsy  butcher. 

The  witnesses  passed  one  after  another,  frightened, 
flurried  by  questions,  their  wits  bemused,  thinking 
only  of  getting  away.  Josephin  burst  into  sobs  in  the 
witness-box  and  the  President  charitably  cut  short 
his  evidence,  of  which  nothing  could  be  heard  but 
scraps  which  were  hiccoughed  out  amid  sobs. 

"His  tears  are  enough  for  me,"  declared  the 
Attorney-General,  with  a  flutter  of  his  red  sleeves. 

Louis's  first  employer,  a  man  who  had  thrashed 
and  ill-treated  him,  came  forward  with  an  account 
of  the  vicious  life  he  had  led  as  a  youth.  There  was 
such   malevolence    in  his   asthmatic    voice,   such  ran- 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  235 

cour  in  the  gossip  which  he  repeated  that  the  public 
murmured  disapproval.  The  old  man,  however,  was 
not  disconcerted. 

"Yes,"  he  insisted,  turning  toward  Louis,  "I  have 
always  said  you  would  end  on  the  scaffold." 

The  audience  was  roused.  In  the  hubbub  no  one 
heard  the  insult  which  the  murderer  hurled  at  him; 
but,  while  the  President  wakened  from  his  slumbers, 
demanded  silence,  the  Advocate-General  proclaimed 
in  his  theatrical  voice  : 

"You  were  right,  sir:  his  fate  is  inscribed  on  his 
forehead." 

Petit  Louis  bore  this  long  ordeal  without  flinching  : 
he  appeared  to  doze  while  the  doctor  gave  evidence 
for  the  prosecution,  and  when  the  Trembler,  the  first 
witness  for  the  defence,  was  ushered  in,  he  only  gave 
him  a  little  look  of  welcome,  which  the  other  did  not 
see. 

Sometimes  he  turned  his  head  toward  the  public, 
his  eyes  resting  on  all  these  different  countenances  : 
for  months  past  he  had  only  seen  the  same  faces  of 
judges  and  warders.  At  other  times  he  listened  to 
the  noises  coming  from  the  street,  the  rolling  of 
carriages,  the  cries  of  hawkers.     Free.    .    .    . 

Evening  was  drawing  near.  Clinging  to  the  high 
window-pane,  the  day  peeped  in,  as  if  loath  to  depart 
without  knowing. 

When  Adele  was  called  and  came  forward  tremb- 
ling, her  features  working,  the  accused  gazed  at  her 
with  a  sort  of  despair.  She  was  dressed  completely 
in  black  and  he  thought,  with  a  sudden  chill  at  his 
heart,  that  she  was  already  wearing  mourning  for  him. 

Turning  his  head  away,  so  as  not  to  be  seen,  he 
began  quietly  to  weep,  without  moving  a  muscle. 

"Look,"  murmured  some  of  the  spectators.  .  .  . 
"He  does  not  even  want  to  look  at  her.  They  are 
heartless,  these  monsters.    .    .    ." 

The  servant's  tale  proved  to  be  a  pitiful  one.  She 
recounted  as  well  as  she  could  the  life  of  her  sister. 


236  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

who  had  died  from  destitution  and  had  been  obliged 
to  hand  over  her  baby  to  the  Assistance  Publique, 
as  she  was  unable  to  feed  him.  She  hemmed  nap- 
kins, at  threepence  a  dozen,  and  provided  the  thread. 

This  detail  provoked  a  titter  from  a  woman  in  the 
audience. 

The  father,  a  drunkard,  had  disappeared.  And  the 
deserted  boy  had  grown  up  in  the  country  first  with 
the  metal-beater,  after  that  anywhere.    .    .    . 

"I  respect  your  grief.  Madam,"  the  President,  who 
had  now  recovered  from  his  lunch,  intervened  em- 
phatically. "But  it  is  an  honour  for  France  that 
the  children  brought  up  under  our  Assistance  Publique 
with  the  admirable  devotion  of  which  everyone  is 
cognizant,  provide  the  country  with  a  contingent  of 
honest  workers,  and,  when  necessary,  heroic  soldiers." 

It  so  happened  that,  by  a  disconcerting  coincidence, 
two  wards  of  the  Institution  sat  on  the  same  bench  : 
the  murderer  and  a  gendarme.  They  looked  at  each 
other;    then,  simultaneously,  turned  their  eyes  away. 

Julie  was  the  next  witness.  When  she  entered, 
a  few  jeers  sounded  behind  her  and  the  miserable  girl 
stopped  short,  bewildered.  She  was  livid,  white- 
lipped,  and  seemed  still  paler  under  the  black  kerchief 
which  she  had  tied  over  her  head,  to  hide  her  cropped 
hair.  She  at  once  bent  her  gaze  on  her  lover,  stirred 
by  a  mysterious  emotion  :  she  had  always  thought 
that  she  would  see  him  thus,  some  day,  before  judges, 
between  two  gendarmes.  It  was  like  a  dream  coming 
true. 

The  President  was  losing  patience. 

"Turn  round,"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  the  jury  you 
must  address." 

She  did  not  repeat  a  single  word  of  what  Petit 
Louis  had  told  her  in  her  garret  the  night  of  the 
crime,  understanding  that  it  could  harm  him,  and 
only  recounted  what  she  had  seen  in  the  disordered 
room,  the  bleeding  corpse,  the  petrified  murderer. 

"She  still  moved  a  bit,  and  I  cried,  Help!" 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  237 

The  public,  shocked,  again  began  to  mm-rnur. 

"I  wonder  whether  the  proper  place  for  this  girl 
is  really  the  witness-box,"  exclaimed  the  Advocate- 
General  when  Julie  withdrew. 

After  she  had  gone,  the  President  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate and  conversed  in  a  low  voice  with  his  Assessors, 
their  three  red  gowns  touching  each  other. 

Petit  Louis,  who  was  gazing  vaguely  at  the  door 
through  which  Julie  had  gone,  leaned  over  to  his  counsel. 

"And  Mile.  Dubourg,"  he  inquired  timidly,  "will 
she  not  come?" 

"WTiy,  no,  we  do  not  need  her  evidence,"  answered 
the  lawyer. 

"Ah!"    .    .    . 

Louis  sat  down,  without  saying  anything  more. 
He  stared  before  him. 

The  President  at  this  moment  came  to  a  decision. 

"Call  M.  Magloire  Dubourg,"  he  ordered. 

A  shiver  ran  through  the  spectators  and  there  arose 
a  sudden  noise  of  impatient  voices,  shuffling  feet,  and 
benches  being  pushed  back.  All  eyes  converged  on 
the  witnesses'  room..  At  the  back  of  the  hall,  behind 
the  railing,  people  jostled  against  each  other.  Then 
the  door  opened  and  complete  silence  reigned. 

He  was  the  one  person  for  whom  they  had  been 
waiting,  all  eyes  were  instantly  fastened  on  him. 

He  was  wearing  a  wide  mantle  in  place  of  the 
legendary  cape  in  which  he  was  usually  seen;  bare- 
headed, his  white  hair  like  a  halo,  he  slowly  advanced 
to  the  bar,  and  having  caught  sight  of  Louis,  he 
gazed  at  him  for  a  long  while  in  silence. 

The  President,  bent  on  hurrying  the  case  through, 
mumbled  the  formula  for  the  oath  : 

"Say  :    I  swear  it." 

Magloire  Dubourg  then  turned  his  eyes  on  him. 

"  Swear  on  what  ? "  he  asked  quietly. 

The  judge  made  a  gesture  of  Ul-temper. 

"The  crucifix  has  been  withdrawn  from  the  law 
courts,"  he  said,  forestalling  the  objection,  "and  the 

Q 


238  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

oaths  v.hich  are  sworn  here  are  not  less  solemn  on 
that  account.  The  testimony  of  atheists  is  just  as 
valuable  as  that  of  others." 

"No,"  the  saint  replied  forcibly.  "If  Christ  reigned 
in  all  hearts,  you  would  be  able  to  destroy  your 
tribunals  and  your  prisons;  you  would  not  be  here 
in  red  gowns,  these  loafers  would  not  come  here  to 
scent  blood,  and  there  could  not  be,  between  two 
gendarmes,  a  twenty-year-old  assassin." 

The  President  tried  to  drown  his  voice  : 

"I  beg  of  you.  .  .  ,  All  this  has  no  connection 
with  the  process  of  the  law.  You  must  keep  strictly 
within  the  limits  of  your  evidence." 

The  public,  whose  attention  had  been  caught  at 
once,  listened  breathlessly.  Women,  with  white  faces, 
had  risen  to  their  feet.  In  the  background  somebody 
shouted:  "Long  live  Saint  Magloire,"  and  the  dis- 
turbance began.     People  wTangled  with   each   other. 

"Sit  down,"  protested  the  spectators  on  the  back 
benches.     "Sit  down!" 

The  usher,  whom  nobody  heard,  clamoured 
"Silence."  And  the  President,  standing  up,  ges- 
ticulated wildly.  The  voice  of  the  saint  dominated 
the  noise. 

"Verily,  I  hear  the  rending  of  your  old  world  which 
is  about  to  collapse.    .    .    ." 

"Silence,"  commanded  the  President.  .  .  .  /'In- 
tervention like  this  is  as  ridiculous  as  it  is  misplaced; 
I  insist  on  your  observing  the  respect  due  to  the 
law.     .    .    ." 

The  saint  continued  in  the  midst  of  the  tumult : 
"You  only  judge  in  the  name  of  egoism  and  of 
fear.  .  .  .  You  are  the  watch-dogs  of  a  house  that 
is  condemned  to  ruin.    .    .    ." 

"  Enough  ! "  stormed  the  President,  banging  on  the 
table  with  his  fists.  .  .  .  "I  shall  have  you 
arrested  at  the  bar.    .    .    .     Gendarmes !    .    .    . " 

"Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged,  said  the  Master," 
the  voice  of  thunder  continued,  "for  with  the  same 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  239 

measure  that  ye  mete  withal,  it  shall  be  measured  to 
you  again." 

Loud  cries  rent  the  air.  The  railings  in  the  back- 
ground were  shaken  by  the  pushing  of  the  crowd. 
Some  nervous  jurors  stood  up.  Suddenly  a  yellow 
flash,  followed  by  a  deafening  explosion,  blinded 
everyone.  Frightened  women  shrieked  and  rushed 
towards  the  exit.  It  was  only  a  photographer  who 
had  taken  a  flashlight  picture.  At  last  two  gendarmes 
cut  through  the  assembly  and  approached  the  saint. 
The  cries  redoubled. 

In  the  enclosure  at  the  back,  people  were  shouting 
"  Long  live  Saint  Magloire  ! "  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 
Petit  Louis,  livid,  survej'ed  this  scene  of  madness. 
No  one  paid  any  attention  to  him. 

When  he  felt  the  hand  of  the  gendarmes  roughly 
laid  on  his  shoulder,  Magloire  Dubourg  simply  turned 
his  head  and  looked  at  them.  His  eyes  had  the 
strange  gleam  which  sometimes  shone  in  their  depths, 
and  the  two  men  felt  a  sort  of  shock  on  meeting  his 
glance.  He  scanned  these  men,  one  after  the  other, 
very  calm  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar. 

"Gendarmes,  take  away  the  prisoner.  .  ,  .  No, 
the  witness,"  stuttered  the  President. 

The  gendarmes  tried  to  obey  the  order,  but  their 
strength  seemed  suddenly  to  ooze  from  them,  leaving 
them  with  limp  fingers  and  nerv^eless  wrists.  They 
were  like  children  wanting  to  move  a  stone  statue. 

"  Long  live  Saint  Magloire  ! " 

"Down  with  the  'cops!'" 

Some  workmen  scrambling  over  the  railings  sprang 
forward  to  release  the  Evangelist;  but  soldiers  called 
in  from  outside  threw  themselves  in  front  of  them  and 
pushed  them  back,  amid  a  racket  of  overturned 
benches  and  a  storm  of  cheers  and  hisses. 

Shrill  cries  of  women  assailed  the  ears.  Scuffling 
and  fighting  had  begun.  An  unkempt  man  carried 
along  by  two  soldiers  was  yelling.  Excited  journa- 
lists standing  on  their  seats  were  taking  notes. 


240  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"And  you,"  the  saint  flung  at  the  Prosecutor, 
"you  will  be  proud  to-night,  to  bear  off  his  head.  It 
will  represent  a  new  triumph.  .  .  .  Verily,  I  tell 
you,  you  will  bear  it  all  your  life,  the  burden  of  this 
boy's  head,  and  every  day  it  will  grow  heavier.    .    .    ." 

The  young  lawyer  with  arms  outstretched,  begged 
for  quiet,  but  Magloire  Dubourg  did  not  see  him.  He 
cried  to  the  jurors,  who  were  leaving  the  court : 

"Hearts  of  stone  !  There  wiU  be  no  pity  for  those 
who  have  shown  themselves  pitiless.  .  .  .  The 
hangman  also  will  be  judged.    .    .    ." 

Crowded  together  near  the  exit,  the  members  of  the 
jury  faced  his  anger,  but  from  a  distance.  A  small 
sour-faced  official  threw  at  him  : 

"You  side  with  the  murderer?" 

"No.  He  wiU  pay  for  his  crime  on  earth,  but  the 
blood  which  wiU  flow  will  only  cleanse  his  soul  and 
sully  yours.    .    .    .   Aceldama.     Aceldama."  ^ 

The  hall  was  being  cleared  amidst  a  deafening  noise. 
Outside,  passions  ran  high.  The  demonstrators,  yell- 
ing, strove  to  release  those  who  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  police  and  soldiers.  WTien  the  saint  appeared 
on  the  steps,  he  was  greeted  by  a  long  ovation;  then, 
while  a  tumultuous  procession  was  forming  behind 
him,  others,  returning  to  the  attack,  tried  to  overrun 
the  court  by  breaking  in  the  doors.  At  last,  after  an 
hour,  peace  was  restored  and,  the  President  haying 
received  orders  from  Paris,  the  hearing  was  resumed 
before  a  room  that  was  two-thirds  empty. 

"My  dear  friend,  I  do  believe  that  your  client  is 
lost,"  said  the  Advocate-General  to  the  counsel  for  the 
defence.  "My  speech  to  the  Court  is  perhaps  un- 
necessary." 

"Still,"  the  young  man  objected  anxiously,  "there 
is  the  family  history,  the  mental  examination.  .  .  . 
You  yourself  said  this  morning   ..." 

"Yes,  this  morning  you  were  certain  to  get  off  with 

1  Aceldama :  field  of  blood.  The  field  which  Judas  bought 
for  his  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  241 

penal  servitude  for  life;  but  now,  you  understand  the 
jurors  mil  be  thirsting  for  revenge,  and  as  they  cannot 
condemn  the  saint,  they  will  make  your  client  pay 
for  it." 

"At  least,"  sighed  the  newly  fledged  lawyer,  "it 
cannot  do  me  any  harm.    ..." 

"Not  at  all,  on  the  contrary.  And  now  that  all  is 
lost,  do  not  hesitate.  Go  at  it  for  all  you're 
worth.    ..." 

"Have  you  already  obtained  many  death- 
sentences?" 

"This  will  make  the  eighth,"  the  Prosecutor 
answered  negligently.  And  he  added,  throwing  back 
his  sleeve  : 

"My  wife  will  be  so  pleased.   ..." 

It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  when  the  jury  finished 
its  deliberations.  The  hall  was  dark.  The  little 
official  had  to  come  close  to  a  chandelier  to  read  the 
verdict.     In  the  square,  shouting  was  still  going  on. 

"On  my  honour  and  my  conscience,  before  God  and 
men,  the  answer  to  the  jury  is  "Yes"  to  all  the  ques- 
tions.   ..." 

Adele,  huddled  on  the  last  bench,  chilled  with 
horror,  a  mist  before  her  eyes,  listened  to  the  drone 
of  unintelligible  words. 

"WTiat  does  it  mean?  What  is  it?"  she  asked  with 
chattering  teeth. 

Her  neighbour  looked  at  her. 

"A  sentence  of  death." 


\ 


CHAPTER  X 

Barlincourt  shivered  with  cold.  A  sharp  wind 
roamed  through  the  deserted  streets,  the  empty  timber- 
yards  and  the  bare  fields.  The  high  chimney-stacks 
of  the  factories  towered  lifeless,  and  the  regular  throb 
of  the  machines  was  no  longer  heard.  The  foremen 
wandered  about  the  silent  workshops.  The  vices 
remained  motionless,  with  drooping  arms;  tools  lay 
about  on  the  benches;  in  the  repair  shops,  unfolded 
rolls  of  canvas  were  still  on  the  trestles  with  the  big 
needle  sticking  half  way  down  the  seam.  The  tar- 
paulins of  the  sheds  flapped  in  the  wind  and  the 
noise  resounded  sadly  through  the  emptiness  of  the 
factory. 

M.  Aubernon  had  just  decided  that  the  strikers 
domiciled  in  the  Cite  must  leave  their  dwellings  on 
the  following  Saturday,  failing  which  they  were  to  be 
evicted.  This  crowning  manoeuvre  to  break  up  the 
strike  had  acted  on  the  workmen  like  the  lash  of  a 
whip.  The  women,  ever  ready  to  weep,  were  be- 
moaning their  lot,  but  the  men  talked  of  raising 
barricades. 

As  to  the  fanatics — there  were  at  least  fifty  families 
of  them — they  submitted  at  once  and  were  tying  up 
bundles  of  clothing  without  making  any  demur.  This 
drove  the  others  to  fury.  Quarrels  broke  out.  Men 
who  wanted  to  fight  were  heard  vociferating  : 

"  Go  and  lick  the  boots  of  the  boss,  you  traitor  ! " 

The  militant  members  of  the  community,  soured 
by  failures,  realised  that  the  game  was  up  and  laid 
the  blame  on  the  saint. 

"It  is  his  fault !  Why  did  he  speak  of  Aubernon 
at  the  Assizes?  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  .  .  . 
That  is  why  they  are  turning  us  out.   ...   If  those 

242 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  243 

chicken-livered    innocents    had  not   stuck  up   for   the 
saint,  this  would  not  have  happened  : " 

"Will  your  saint  find  a  lodging  for  my  kid?  Or  the 
Cure?  He  was  hand  in  glove  with  the  boss,  your 
Magloire,  you  blacklegs  ! " 

However,  a  goodly  number  of  strikers  still  upheld 
the  saint.  On  the  evening  of  the  trial,  when  he  re- 
turned to  Barlincourt,  they  escorted  him  with  cheers 
from  the  station,  and  on  the  way  back  they  stopped 
under  M.  Aubernon's  windows  to  shout  "Murderer  !" 

Among  those  taking  part  in  the  demonstration,  M. 
Aubernon,  crimson  in  the  face  and  stamping  his  feet 
with  rage,  recognised  Milot,  and  this  proved  the  last 
straw.  The  same  night,  without  a  word  of  explana- 
tion, he  discharged  the  doorkeeper-sacristan. 

The  cripple  would  not  allow  himself  to  be 
demoralised  by  such  a  trifle.  On  the  contrary :  he 
was  proud  of  being  promoted  to  the  ranks  of  the 
working-class  martyrs  and  was  quite  sufficiently  re- 
warded when  at  the  first  meeting,  he  was  unanimously 
elected  chairman.  That  evening  the  renegades,  who 
were  moving  out  without  putting  up  any  resistance, 
had  been  freely  hooted  and  it  was  decided  to  make  a 
stand,  even  against  a  display  of  military  force. 

Saint  Magloire,  to  whom  his  disciples  had  come  for 
advice,  told  them  to  remain  in  the  Cite. 

"Afterwards,  if  they  expel  you,"  he  promised  them, 
"you  will  take  up  your  abode  in  the  church.  The 
House  of  God  is  the  house  of  the  poor,  it  is  yours." 

The  Cure,  when  these  words  were  repeated  to  him, 
was  nearly  overwhelmed.  He  saw  his  chapel  invaded, 
his  vestry  defiled,  the  presbytery  plundered;  and  he 
went  straight  to  the  Town  Hall  to  ask  M.  Quatrepomme 
to  have  the  church  guarded  on  the  day  of  the  evic- 
tions. 

Since  sentence  had  been  passed  on  Petit  Louis, 
Abbe  Choisy  had  read  in  the  Croix  and  the  Nou- 
velliste,  which  were  lent  to  him,  such  articles  on  the 
Evangelist  that  the  old  man  no  longer  awed  him.     He 


244  SAINT   MAGLOTRE 

had  even  had  the  audacit}'  to  call  him  curtly  "Sir" 
in  public. 

After  he  had  placed  his  request  before  the  Mayor, 
the  Cure  betook  himself  to  the  Gendarmerie  and  lodged 
a  complaint  against  Milot.  The  latter,  filled  with 
sudden  zeal  since  his  dismissal,  was  determined  to 
remain  at  his  post  of  beadle  in  spite  of  all 
opposition  ;  and  that  very  morning  he  had  insisted 
on  serving  Mass  and  had  caused  a  scandal  during 
the  service. 

Thus,  in  the  streets  in  the  Cite,  in  the  public  houses, 
and  even  in  the  church,  people  were  quarrelling. 
Often  the  wranglers  came  to  blows. 

Disquieting  rumours  were  rife  in  Barlincourt;  it 
was  said  that  the  workmen  in  the  Cite  were  en- 
trenching themselves  and  that  the  factory  was  going 
to  be  blown  up.  The  terrified  tradesmen  only  half- 
opened  their  shops  and  the  dragoons  clattering  along 
imparted  to  the  empty  streets  an  atmosphere  of  appre- 
hension. 

On  the  Saturday,  ever^^thing  remained  closed.  A 
thousand  onlookers  were  massed  on  the  Flanders  road 
hoping  to  see  something;  but  a  troop  of  cavalry 
impeded  their  passage,  and  prevented  them  from 
getting  through.  People  were  tremulously  expecting 
affrays,  and  some  of  the  idle  spectators  were  already 
looking  out  for  a  way  of  escape.  Wlien  the  Commis- 
sary arrived,  there  was  an  explosion  of  cries  and  hisses, 
but  only  a  few  gendarmes  were  needed  to  push  back 
the  demonstrators. 

From  afar  there  could  be  heard  the  heart-rending 
cries  of  women  in  the  Cite  :  they  were  evidently  holding 
on  to  their  homes  with  might  and  main.  The  children, 
seized  with  terror,  were  screaming  shrilly.  Door-locks 
were  being  forced,  barricades  destroyed,  and  bundles 
of  clothes  thrown  into  the  mud. 

Between  the  hind-quarters  of  the  horses  the  scared 
groups  of  refugees  could  be  seen,  looking  at  their 
houses  with  despairing  eyes.     On  the  brick  walls  were 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  245 

lines  of  string,  along  which  nasturtiums  used  to  climb 
in  the  summer. 

"Haven't  we  got  a  home  any  more,  then. 
Mummy?    ..."  whined  the  smaller  children. 

Shabby  luggage  was  being  piled  up  :  black  wooden 
trunks,  baskets,  folding  beds,  a  cradle.  ...  It  was 
all  loaded  on  lorries  from  the  factory,  and  taken  into  an 
old  tile-shed,  open  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  which 
the  Prefect  had  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  homeless. 

The  evicted  people  still  forlornly  waited.  Little  by 
little  the  gendarmes  drove  them  back.  It  was  the 
end.  ...  A  sort  of  procession  formed,  women  with 
their  white-faced  babies  in  their  arms,  people  cum- 
bered with  all  sorts  of  heterogeneous  articles,  which 
they  had  not  wanted  to  leave  behind  :  clocks,  almanacs, 
a  fat  red  eiderdown  quilt.  They  filed  by,  shamefaced, 
between  two  rows  of  curious  spectators.  A  platoon  of 
gendarmes  came  behind,  urging  the  flock  forward; 
they  looked  like  a  gang  of  convicts  on  their  way  to 
transportation.  Out  of  bravado,  they  talked  loudly, 
chaffing  each  other  and  forcing  themselves  to  laugh. 
But  when  they  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town  and 
foimd  themselves  alone,  silence  fell  suddenly  upon 
them.  The  rain,  cutting  and  icy,  had  begun  to  fall, 
and  without  a  word,  they  moved  wearily  away.    .    .  . 

Barlincourt  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief;  everything 
had  gone  off  peacefully.  .  .  .  The  shopkeepers,  re- 
assured, took  down  their  shutters.  In  the  Rue  de 
Verdun  the  well-to-do  distributed  cigarettes  among 
the  soldiers. 

One  man  remained  indignant  :  and  that  man  was 
Milot.  In  anticipation  of  serious  trouble  and  of  the 
occupation  of  the  church  by  the  Christian  proletariat, 
he  had  donned  a  black  coat  with  a  chain  round  his 
neck.  In  this  attire,  supplemented  by  his  staff  of 
ofifice,  he  had,  during  the  whole  afternoon  awaited 
demonstrators  in  the  square  before  the  church.  No- 
body appeared. 


246  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

He  had  seen  the  cavahy  go  past  again,  then  the 
loafers,  walking  two  abreast,  protected  by  umbrellas; 
but  after  that  he  could  no  longer  contain  himself.  He 
apostrophised  the  passers-by,  played  havoc  with  the 
children,  bawling  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  while  he 
brandished  his  staff  aloft.  He  shouted  that  the 
strikers  were  "knuckling  under,"  that  there  were  no 
men  left,  and  that  the  end  of  the  Republic  was  at 
hand.  He  pretended  to  tear  off  his  medals  and  throw 
them  into  the  mud,  then,  his  eloquence  exhausted, 
he  cried  out  "Long  live  Saint  Magloire,"  feeling  sure 
that  these  words  would  annoy  everybody. 

And  now,  with  his  voice,  hoarse  and  spent,  he 
remained  stubbornly,  all  by  himself  in  front  of  the 
church  door,  still  bawling,  so  that  he  seemed  to  be 
holding  a  solitary  parade  for  the  benefit  of  two  children 
who,  blue  from  cold  and  the  damp  wind,  were  watching 
him. 

"Even  the  chickens  are  taking  a  hand,"  grumbled 
old  fitienne,  who  was  now  the  only  gardener  at  the 
Villa  Dubourg. 

Though  he  did  his  best,  preparing  warm  messes  for 
them  and  cleaning  the  fowl  houses  with  coaltar  to 
rid  them  of  the  vermin  with  which  they  were  infested, 
one  of  them  died  every  day.  He  was  beginning  to 
suspect  the  refugees,  who  now  had  the  free  run  of- the 
gardens,  for  the  saint  protected  them  against  everybody. 

If  he  had  not  been  buo^^ed  up  by  the  hope  that 
the  family  would  soon  return  to  Paris,  or  go  south, 
leaving  him  in  sole  occupation  of  the  house  at  Barlin- 
court,  fitienne  would  have  left  the  place  long  ago,  for 
his  position  had  become  imbearable. 

He  took  his  meals  alone  in  the  kitchen  with 
Adele,  and  completely  lost  his  appetite  through  being 
faced  day  after  day  by  the  haggard-eyed  woman.  The 
cook  no  longer  complained,  and  no  longer  wept;  the 
bad  dreams  of  her  sleepless  nights  still  seemed  to 
haunt  her  waking  hours. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  247 

He  had  imagined  at  first  that  she  would  hate  the 
saint,  for  all  the  papers  had  said  that  but  for  him 
the  murderer  would  probably  have  got  off  with  penal 
servitude.  But,  on  the  contrary,  the  first  time  she 
saw  him  again,  she  kissed  his  hands,  weeping.  Old 
fitienne  reaUy  could  not  understand  anything  of  all 
these  goings  on,  and,  as  he  was  terribly  bored,  he  had 
taken  to  drink. 

From  time  to  time  some  one  could  be  heard 
shouting  outside :  it  was  the  fanatic  of  the  lodge 
coming  home,  escorted  by  a  troop  of  urchins  singing  : 

"He  is  cracked, 
Pan,  pan,  pan,  pan. 
There  is  nothing  in  his  head.    ..." 

Begin,  the  baker,  had  refused  to  supply  the  King's 
Domain  any  longer,  saying  that  all  the  misfortunes  of 
the  district  came  from  there;  and  as  soon  as  his  last 
account  had  been  settled,  he  had  shouted  insults 
through  the  railings,  his  fat  face  purple  with  rage. 
When  the  gardener  wanted  to  go  out  and  thrash  him, 
the  saint  held  him  back. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  he  said  gently.  "Perhaps  he 
is  right;  and  I  have  still  a  great  deal  of  pride  to  over- 
come, if  I  am  capable  of  being  hurt  by  abuse." 

Encouraged  by  this  attitude,  the  baker  persevered  : 
since  then  he  stopped  his  cart  every  morning  in  front 
of  the  villa,  and  standing  up  on  his  box,  he  made  a 
little  speech,  crying  shame  upon  the  demagogues,  the 
poisoners  of  the  nation,  whilst  the  fanatic  in  his  white 
robe,  standing  at  his  window,  shouted  "  Vade  retro" 
and  cursed  him  with  outstretched  arms. 

The  other  refugee  laughed  himself  sick  and  invited 
friends  to  come  and  see  the  performance. 

"I  swear  to  you,  it's  more  fun  than  the  cinema." 

Among  the  strikers  the  brawls  had  become  so  violent, 
the  "reds"  against  the  converts  of  the  tile-sheds,  that  the 
latter  had  to  be  moved  and  lodged  in  another  hovel. 


248  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

M.  Frangois  Dubourg,  exasperated  by  all  these  inci- 
dents, had  given  up  returning  to  Barlincourt.  "The 
Red  Bastard"  was  coming  on  again  at  the  Ambigu 
Theatre,  and  he  declared  that  the  rehearsals  were 
keeping  him  in  Paris. 

The  truth  was  that  he  had  taken  a  mistress — his 
first  serious  love-affair,  though  be  was  over  fifty — and 
he  preferred  to  live  with  her  in  bohemian  fashion  at 
Montmartre,  rather  than  return  to  the  King's  Domain, 
where  the  austere  atmosphere  was  too  much  for  him. 

Mme.  Dubourg  also  was  frequently  away  from  home. 
One  day,  when  she  felt  more  overwrought  than  usual, 
she  had  fainted  in  the  stairway  of  a  house  to  which 
she  was  accompanying  the  saint,  and  she  had  felt  so 
disheartened,  so  weary  of  everything,  that  instead  of 
returning  straight  to  Barlincourt,  she  went  up  to  M. 
Van  den  Kris'  flat  to  rest  for  a  moment.  She  con- 
fessed to  him  her  disgust  with  this  joyless  existence, 
these  monotonous  days.  Jos  showed  his  affection  for 
her,  and  endeavoured  to  comfort  her  with  clumsy 
caresses;  and  after  that  she  often  went  back  to  see 
him. 

It  was  only  when  she  was  with  him  that  she 
escaped  from  the  tediousness  which  enshrouded  her. 
It  was  a  relaxation  to  listen  smilingly  to  the  Dutch- 
man's whimsical  remarks,  and  not  to  be  continually 
exhorted  to  good  works.  Moreover,  she  was  experi- 
encing that  tardy  thirst  for  happiness  which  the  saint 
had  awakened  in  her. 

She  was  also  pleased  by  the  flat  itself.  The  rooms 
were  queerly  furnished,  with  exotic  "bric-a-brac" 
that  made  them  look  like  the  clearing  house  of  a  sea- 
port, and  they  smelled  of  vanilla,  leather,  old  books 
and  sandal  wood.  Strange  curtains,  made  of  many- 
coloured  strips,  such  as  are  probably  used  in  the  huts 
of  negro  chiefs,  hung  in  front  of  the  windows,  and  the 
daylight  could  hardly  creep  in  through  them.  On 
the  walls  hung  panoplies  of  arrows  and  assegais, 
Sudanese    citharas;    zebu  horns;    upon    the    fumitur« 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  249 

stood  palm-fibre  baskets,  filled  with  dried  fruits  and 
shells,  a  large  compass  and  guide  books  of  shipping 
companies. 

M.  Van  den  Kris  slept  on  a  camp-bed  of  green  Unen, 
with  its  mosquito-net  set  up  ready  for  use.  To  Ught  his 
room,  he  used  a  hurricane-lamp,  which  stood  on  two 
cabin  trunks  that  were  always  ready  packed.  There 
was  every  encouragement  to  perpetual  travel :  the 
posters,  with  large  red  steamers— DEUTSCHE  OST 
AFRIKA  LINIE— which  papered  the  entrance-hall; 
a  rolled-up  tent,  the  maps  pinned  to  the  walls,  above 
all,  the  penetrating  smeU  of  the  wilds,  which  these 
things  had  preserved.  Mme.  Dubourg,  amused,  tried 
with  the  tips  of  her  fingers  the  points  of  the  lances 
and  the  edge  of  the  Touareg  swords,  with  their  short 
blades  and  their  cross-shaped  hilts. 

It  was  here  that  M.  Van  den  Kris  had  been 
travelling  for  the  last  twenty  years.  .  .  .  Lying  on 
this  sofa,  he  exhausted  in  the  dreams  of  a  single 
evening  every  peril,  every  joy  of  a  whole  year's  wan- 
dering. It  was  enough  for  him  to  read  the  name  of 
a  port  on  the  prospectus  of  a  steamship  line  to  be 
carried  to  the  other  end  of  the  world.  In  this  motion- 
less cabin  he  had  tasted  the  coarse  delights  of  drinking 
bouts  at  Colombo,  the  long  reveries  on  the  decks  of 
sleeping  ships,  when  the  flying  fish  of  the  China  Seas 
dash  by  like  silver  darts  in  the  blue  air.  He  had 
known  landings  at  Grand  Lahou,  where  the  Kroumen 
paddlers,  singing,  clear  the  high  foam-fringed  bar; 
he  had  crossed  Laos  with  its  forests  of  tamarinds,  the 
desert  uplands  of  the  Andes,  the  burnt  brushwood 
where  the  vultures  fly,  Fiji  with  its  perfume  of  vanilla. 
And  all  because  he  had  found  a  faded  view  of  Samoa 
and  the  portrait  of  a  little  black  queen  with  hibiscus- 
crowned  hair,  marking  a  page  in  a  book,  he  had,  while 
poring  over  a  map  of  the  blue  seas  dotted  with 
fascinating  names,  completed  in  a  single  night  that 
cruise  among  the  indolent  islands  of  the  Pacific,  of 
which  he  still  talked  sometimes. 


250  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

Marie  Louise,  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit,  had 
been  frightened  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  flat  by  a 
greyish  carapace. 

"Oh!  This  hideous  beast!  Is  it  a  croco- 
dUe?"   .   .   . 

"No,  it  is  an  iguana,  a  species  of  lizard.  They 
climb  up  trees  like  squirrels.  I  brought  it  back  from 
over  there  as  a  souvenir.    ..." 

"Over  there"  was  Bordeaux,  where  he  had  bought 
it  for  fifteen  francs  in  the  shop  of  a  bird-seller. 

He  and  she  no  longer  felt  the  impulse  which  throws 
eager  lovers  into  each  other's  arms  at  their  first  ren- 
dezvous; he  was  close  upon  fifty  and  she  just  over 
forty.     Their  love  had  deeper  roots  than  that. 

They  recalled  old  memories  :  the  ashes  were  not  yet 
cold.  .  .  .  He  recalled  his  first  visits  to  Barlincourt, 
Gerard  gambolling  in  short  knickerbockers,  Yvonne 
trotting  about  in  knitted  socks.    .    .    . 

At  the  close  of  day,  pulling  aside  the  curtains,  they 
would  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  watch  the  small 
square  where  the  children  were  playing.  It  was  Saint 
Martin's  summer.  A  transparent  sun  was  fading  on 
the  roofs  and,  misled  by  these  few  days  of  warmth  and 
light,  trees  were  putting  forth  green  buds  and  birds 
were  singing. 

"They  deceive  themselves  as  we  do,"  murmured 
Marie  Louise,  smiling  mournfully.  "They,  too,  believe 
that  spring  has  come  back.    ..." 

•  •••••• 

With  her  father  and  mother  always  away,  her 
brother  back  in  Paris  for  his  classes,  Yvonne  remained 
alone  for  days  together  in  the  silent  villa. 

With  a  book  or  some  embroidery  on  her  lap,  she 
would  sit  for  hours  without  stirring,  almost  without 
thinking.  She  was  like  a  fly,  paralysed  by  the  spider 
who  is  watching  it.  She  awaited  her  destiny,  unable 
to  do  anything.  .  .  .  The  letters  which  she  had 
written  to  Georges  Aubernon  had  remained  un- 
answered;  often  she  had  waited  for  him  at  the  station. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  251 

but  he  no  longer  came  to  Barlincourt.  And  now  she 
had  been  pregnant  for  at  least  three  months. 

Several  times,  feelmg  her  heart  too  fragile  for  so 
much  sorrow,  she  was  on  the  verge  of  confessing 
everything  to  her  parents,  but  the  respect  tinged  with 
awe  which  she  felt  for  her  uncle  kept  her  back.  If 
he  had  not  been  there,  she  would  akeady  have  thrown 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms  and,  weeping,  would 
have  yielded  up  her  poor  secret;  but  in  his  presence 
she  would  never  dare.  Rather  than  reveal  her  shame 
to  him,  rather  than  appear  impure  before  his  clear 
eyes,  she  would  have  preferred  to  die. 

To  die.  .  .  .  The  word  no  longer  instUled  fear 
into  her  heart :  the  saint  spoke  of  death  with  so  much 
tenderness.  ...  A  short  sleep,  and  on  the  other 
side,  a  new  life,  without  a  stain.  .  .  .  She  gazed  at 
the  beautiful  white  clouds  spinning  past  in  the  icy 
sky.  Perhaps  it  is  with  those  big  sponges  of  light 
that  the  blemishes  on  dead  people's  souls  are  wiped 
out.    .    .    . 

Benumbed,  cast  back  entirely  into  herself,  she  in- 
vented sad  little  romances.  .  .  .  She  saw  herself, 
quite  white,  in  her  bed,  dying  of  consumption.  A 
pretty  silk  shawl  had  been  thrown  over  her  shoulders 
and  her  mother  was  weeping.    .    .    . 

Or  else  she  sat  down  at  the  piano,  picking  out  some 
plaintive  melody,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  the 
pale  shadows  of  Schumann  and  Chopin  were  leaning 
over  her  and  saying  : 

"Come   .    .    .   Come.    ..." 

Only  during  dinner,  when  her  uncle  was  present, 
Yvonne  relaxed  somewhat.  An  impression  of  her 
childhood  came  back  to  her,  when,  after  playing  hard, 
she  had  entered  the  church  and  found  herself  sud- 
denly alone,  so  slender  on  her  prie-dicu,  in  the  midst 
of  that  large,  still,  empty  space  which  smelt  of  incense. 
She  now  felt  the  same  in  her  ecstasy.  An  atmosphere 
of  serenity  surrounded  the  saint. 

When  she  went  up  to  her  room,  she  could  hear  her 


252  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

uncle  walking  backwards  and  forwards  overhead.  She 
followed  his  heavy  step,  from  his  ever-open  window 
to  his  oaken  prie-dieu.  She  heard  him  drop  on  his 
knees. 

In  the  sleeping  house,  she  soon  caught  the  sound 
of  a  hushed  voice.  But  it  was  not  the  murmur  of  a 
prayer;  it  was  rather  as  if  the  saint  had  been  answer- 
ing someone,  before  his  crucifix  of  black  wood. 

Then,  frozen,  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  whispering 
timidly  Ave  Marias,  the  girl  Ustened  to  that  murmur 
which  perhaps  was  speaking  to  God. 

One  morning  when  she  was  alone,  Yvonne  felt  sud- 
denly ill.  A  feeling  of  nausea  assailed  her,  her  legs 
gave  way.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror;  her 
nose  was  pinched,  her  eyes  hollow,  and  she  remembered 
a  little  maid  who  had  been  dismissed  some  time  ago, 
because  of  that  same  appearance.  At  the  time  she 
had  not  understood,  but  now,  she  knew,  and  the 
memory  made  her  burst  into  tears. 

When  the  weeping  fit  was  over,  she  suddenly  felt 
lucid  and  resolute.  It  was  imperative  that  she  should 
see  Georges,  speak  to  his  parents,  tell  them  everything. 
When  they  knew  the  truth,  they  would  be  compelled 
to  consent  to  the  marriage;  their  disagreement  with 
the  saint  would  not  be  allowed  to  stand  in  its  way. 

Her  girlish  hesitations  had  all  of  a  sudden  given 
place  to  womanly  determination,  and  she  even  won- 
dered how  she  could  have  been  so  unhappy,  when  it 
was  so  simple  to  arrange  everything.  As  she  knew 
that  Mme.  Aubernon,  terrified  by  the  strikes,  had 
returned  to  Paris  some  days  before,  she  at  once  took 
the  train,  a  thing  she  had  never  previously  done  by 
herself. 

Directly  Mme.  Aubernon  saw  the  girl  enter  the 
room,  she  understood.  Nothing  had  ever  led  her  to 
anticipate  such  a  scandal,  and  yet,  at  the  first  glance, 
some  kind  of  divination  enlightened  her. 

She   recoiled   involuntarily,    with    a   surly   pinching 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  253 

la  of  her  lips  and  found  herself  on  the  point  of  cr5dng 
Dut  :  "It  is  not  true  ! "  But  she  recovered  her  self- 
possession  at  once  and,  forcing  a  smile,  welcomed 
Yvonne  as  graciously  as  she  could. 

"What  a  pleasant  surprise  !  Are  you  spending  the 
day  in  Paris?     And  how  is  your  mother?" 

The  short  phrases  kept  whirling  round  like  a  flight 
of  birds  in  the  blank  mind  of  the  poor  little  girl.  She 
felt  giddy  and,  even  before  she  opened  her  lips,  she 
could  tell  that  her  voice  would  fail.  Yet  she  did  not 
think  of  going  away. 

Mme.  Aubernon  left  the  room  to  give  an  order  and 
the  yormg  girl  understood  that  Georges  was  at  home 
and  had  been  told  not  to  appear. 

Her  hands  were  so  icy  that  when  she  laid  them  on 
the  marble  of  the  centre  table  she  did  not  feel  the  cold 
of  the  stone.  She  was  not  agitated,  but  she  realised 
that  she  was  going  to  live  through  a  moment  as  solemn 
as  death  itself.  When  Mme.  Aubernon  returned, 
Yvonne  thought  that  she  looked  harsher  than  before. 
Nevertheless  she  did  not  flinch. 

"Well,  my  little  Yvonne,"  questioned  the  mother  in 
her  cutting  voice,  "Have  you  got  a  message  for  me?" 

The  girl  did  not  dare  look  at  her,  not  from  fear, 
but  rather  from  shame  and  decency. 

"Madame  Aubernon,  you  know  that  I  cared  very 
much  for  Georges.    ..." 

Mme.  Aubernon,  at  once  on  the  defensive,  interrupted 
her  : 

"He  is  not  here." 

Yvonne  shook  her  head  as  if  to  say  that  this  was 
not  what  she  wanted.  She  spoke  in  a  muffled  voice, 
without  lifting  her  eyelids.  Having  stopped  an  instant 
CO  choose  her  words  she  continued  : 

"Georges  and  I  saw  each  other  freely;  you  and  my 
parents  were  agreed  about  that,  and  I  always  thought 
^hat  later  on  we  should  marry." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  protested  Mme.  Aubernon. 
"There   has   never    been    anything    definite.    ...   It 

& 


254  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

was  a  mere  childish  friendship,  which  carried  no  obli- 
gations with  it,  and  my  son  is  not  in  the  least  bound." 

"But  he  is,  Madame,"  said  Yvonne  simply. 

Mme.  Aubernon  ceased  playing  with  her  chain  of 
black  stones,  her  heart  heavy  with  apprehension. 

"I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean.  .  .  .  Have 
your  parents  advised  you  to  take  this  step?  I  am 
not  surprised.     Well,  then,  what  is  your  object?" 

Yvonne  summoned  her  courage  and  in  a  little  hurt 
voice  : 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  Georges  to  marry  me  as  he 
promised,"  she  murmured. 

This  time,  the  mother  rose,  with  a  malicious  expres- 
sion on  her  face  : 

"Ah,  no,  no,"  she  ejaculated,  still  restraining  her 
anger;  "we  won't  allow  ourselves  to  be  caught  like 
that.  .  .  .  My  son  cannot  marry  you,  you  know  it. 
First,  there  was  never  any  question  of  it.  And  after 
what  has  happened  in  Barlincourt,  we  no  longer  have 
an^^'thing  in  common  with  your  family;  you  are  our 
enemies.  It  is  on  account  of  your  uncle  that  all  our 
factories  have  gone  on  strike;  he  has  insulted  my 
husband,  he  has  roused  the  country  to  revolution. 
.  .  .  Oh  !  I  will  never  see  your  parents  again,  never, 
5^ou  can  tell  them  that  from  me,  since  it  is  on  their 
advice  that  you  have  come  to  seek  us  out.    ..." 

Yvonne  remained  unmoved.  Her  inherent  sweet- 
ness was  more  firm  and  resolute  than  sheer  will-power. 
Nothing  could  stop  her. 

"Madame,  my  parents  do  not  even  know  that  I  am 
here,"  she  asserted.     "I  could  not  possibly  tell  them." 

Mme.  Aubernon  sneered  evilly  : 

"Really,  for  a  girl  in  good  society,  you  have  been 
nicely  brought  up.  .  .  .  Well,  if  your  parents  do 
not  know  you  are  here,  you  need  not  have  taken  the 
trouble.    ..." 

"I  had  to,  Madame,"  said  the  young  girl,  whose 
delicate  hands  had  begun  to  shake.  "Ask  Georges, 
he  will  teU  you.   ..." 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  255 

"I  do  not  believe  you,"  shrilled  the  woman,  at  last 
losing  her  temper.  "My  son  does  not  know  anything, 
he  would  not  understand  any  of  your  tricks." 

"Yes,"  went  on  Yvonne,  who  felt  a  nervous  tremb- 
ling taking  possession  of  her  whole  body,  from  her 
knees  which  knocked  against  each  other,  to  her 
quivering  chin  and  the  very  words  in  her  contracted 
throat.     "Yes,  he  knows.    ..." 

And  shaken  by  a  big  gasp  of  distress,  she  burst  into 
tears,  her  face  hidden  between  her  hands. 

This  outburst  should  have  enlightened  Mme  Auber- 
non,  but  she  was  determined  to  understand  nothing, 
to  remain  blind.  She  gazed  with  hatred  at  the 
weeping  child;  she  would  gladly  have  seized  her  bodily 
and  thrown  her  out  to  the  landing,  as  she  might  have 
done  in  bygone  days,  when  she  still  belonged  to  the 
working  class.  It  was  her  son  that  she  was  shielding, 
and  she  was  ready  to  do  anything  to  save  him  from 
this  danger.  Already  she  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
door  of  the  drawing  room  to  stop  the  child  in  case  she 
should  wish  to  pass. 

Without  ceasing  to  cry,  Yvonne  moaned  : 

"Georges  must  marry  me;  he  cannot  do  otherwise 
now,  he  knows  that  quite  well.    ..." 

It  seemed  to  Mme.  Aubernon  that  the  floor  creaked 
in  the  next  room  and  she  had  only  ears  for  that.  She 
looked  round  furtively,  ready  to  push  back  the  door, 
should  her  son  by  chance  wish  to  come  in. 

"I  have  told  him,"  confessed  Yvonne  at  last,  ex- 
hausted with  weeping,  "it  is  awful,  I  am  going  to  have 
a  baby.    ..." 

She  lay  across  the  table,  her  face  on  the  marble 
top,  her  arms  hanging  at  her  sides,  and  nothing  could 
be  seen  of  her  but  a  slender  back  shaken  with  sobs. 

Mme.  Aubernon  drew  near,  white  with  passion. 

"It  is  not  his,  it  is  not  his,"  she  stammered.  "You 
are  trying  to  blackmail  us." 

The  young  girl  raised  herself,  showing  her  haggard 
face. 


256  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"  You  say  that !    .    .    .    to  me  ! " 

She  was  frightful  to  look  upon  v/ith  her  mottled 
skin,  her  reddened  eyes,  her  disordered  hair.  Her 
colourless  Ups  were  quivering  : 

"You  know  that  I  am  speaking  the  truth,"  breathed 
her  appealing  voice.     "Ask  Georges." 

"I  shan't  ask  anything,"  muttered  the  gaunt  woman 
who  was  bending  over  her.  "I  do  not  care  to  have 
him  mixed  up  with  such  a  dirty  business.  You  can 
lie  as  much  as  you  like,  it  is  your  parents  who  have 
sent  you.  ...  I  saw  what  your  game  was  some 
time  ago.  ...  I  ought  to  have  been  on  my  guard. 
.  .  .  You  ran  after  him,  you  lay  in  wait  for  him, 
you  enticed  him  to  your  house.    ..." 

"That  is  not  true  !" 

"  It  is   ...  he  told  me  so  ! " 

Yvonne  rose,  stunned,  hardly  understanding  these 
insults. 

"But  I  swear  to  you  that  if  anyone  imagines  that 
we  can  be  blackmailed,  they  are  making  a  mistake  ! " 

This  time  the  child  rebelled  : 

"You  lie!"  she  cried.  "You  are  a  wicked 
woman.    ..." 

Then  losing  her  head,  she  called  : 

"Georges!     Georges!" 

Mme.  Aubernon  sprang  at  her  and  seized  her  by 
the  wrists;  but  there  was  little  need  to  push  her,  for 
the  girl  had  dropped  back  on  her  chair,  white-faced 
and  tearless,  her  teeth  chattering. 

"He  wUl  not  come,"  the  woman  continued  venom- 
ously. "He  knows  only  too  well  what  you  are  worth, 
your  whole  family  of  mountebanks,  and  all  the  harm 
you  have  done  us.  .  .  .  Your  uncle  is  a  madman 
who  will  end  his  days  in  prison.  .  .  .  It  is  no  good 
for  you  to  look  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  your  mouth, 
you  know  a  thing  or  two.  .  .  .  You  know  that  your 
father  lives  in  Montmartre  with  some  low  creature, 
and  that  your  mother  has  a  lover.  ...  No  one 
would  marry  into  such  a  family.    ..." 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  257 

Yvonne  listened  with  bruised  heart.  Her  mother? 
She  thought  at  once  of  M.  Van  den  Kris.  She  hung 
her  head.  She  suddenly  felt  ashamed  of  herself, 
ashamed  of  her  people.  Everything  was  collapsing 
round  her,  as  though  she  no  longer  had  a  family,  or 
anything.  There  was  nothing  left  but  a  little  bit  of 
flotsam  that  was  being  kicked  away,  and  perhaps 
they  had  the  right  to  do  it.  .  .  .  She  gave  in  and 
stopped  defending  herself.  In  a  hoarse  voice  she 
added  : 

"But  what  am  I  going  to  do?" 
Her  collapse  brought  rehef  to  the  woman  : 
"Oh  !  well !"  she  said,  "you  wiU  manage  somehow. 
These  things  will  happen.    ..." 

Yvonne  thought  again  of  the  little  maid  whom  her 
parents  had  turned  out.  She  felt  humble  and  desper- 
ate, as  the  other  must  have  felt  outside  the  door  of 
the  villa.  She  rose  mechanically,  and  having  tidied 
herself  in  front  of  the  looking-glass,  she  went  out. 

Before  the  parlour-maid,  self-respect  induced  her 
to  make  a  last  effort,  and  she  smiled  at  Mme. 
Aubernon  as  she  said  "Good-bye"  in  a  small  husky 
voice.  Then  when  the  door  closed  behind  her,  she 
stood  for  a  long  moment  looking  at  it,  wondering  if  all 
was  really  over,  if  no  one  would  take  pity  and  open 
it  again  for  her. 

Georges  looked  at  his  mother  with  a  sidelong 
glance  : 

"Were  you  listening?" 

He  nodded. 

"Wasn't  I  right?" 

He  did  not  answer.  But  after  a  moment,  he  said 
in  a  terrified  tone  : 

"What  if  she  went  and  killed  herself?" 

"Kill  herself!     Nonsense!    ..." 

And  she  added  between  her  teeth  ; 

"What  if  she  did.   ..." 


258  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

A  wild  wind  blew  through  the  firs,  wresting  from 
them  a  long-drawn  plaint.  It  sniffed  under  the  doors 
like  a  snarling  dog  and  swept  roaring  up  the  chimneys. 
On  the  wall  of  the  villa  a  shutter-blind,  which  had 
come  undone,  was  flapping. 

Adele  walked  across  the  terrace,  sheltering  her 
lantern  behind  her  blue  apron.  The  impenetrable 
light  hid  sounds  of  terror,  and  the  gusts  pursued  each 
other,  shaking  off  great  drops  of  rain  in  their  flight. 
Ten  paces  away  nothing  could  be  seen.  The  leafless 
park  creaked  in  the  storm;  the  naked  trees  swayed 
like  masts :  the  Flying  Dutchman  was  about  to 
sail.    .    .    . 

The  maid  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  outbuildings, 
to  go  up  to  the  loft  for  some  pears;  the  wind,  with  one 
rough  blast,  shut  it  behind  her  and  blew  out  the  light. 
Adele  stopped,  unable  to  see  anything;  but  little  by 
little  the  window  of  the  wash-house  stood  out  against 
the  darkness  in  a  lighter  black,  and  by  this  uncertain 
reflection  the  outline  of  things  could  be  guessed  at. 
The  maid,  by  their  help,  knew  where  she  was  and 
moved  on,  gropingly.  She  mounted  the  stairs,  in- 
tending to  light  her  lantern  when  she  reached 
the  top. 

Her  lonely  step  sounded  dismally  through  the  old 
house.  She  walked  straight  on,  for  she  knew  her  way. 
Suddenly  she  ran  against  something.  Her  heart  leiipt 
and  she  moved  back  terrified.    .    .    . 

What  had  they  put  there?  .  .  .  Something  to 
dry?  A  sack?  Standing  still,  wide-eyed,  she  vainly 
tried  to  realise  what  it  was,  and  her  shaking  hand 
could  not  find  the  matches.  At  last,  recovering  from 
the  shock,  she  resolutely  drew  near  and  stretched  out 
her  hand.    .    .    . 

It  was  not  a  cry  that  she  uttered,  but  a  howl,  a 
heartrending  call  for  help,  a  horrible  clamour  which 
pierced  the  night.  She  sprang  forward  as  though 
electrified,  dropping  her  lantern;  and  full  of  horror 
she   shrieked,   lier   arms  held   stiffly   before  her.     The 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  259 

thing  she  had  touched  was  a  hand,  a  cold  hand  at  the 
end  of  an  inert  arm.    .    .    . 

An  icy  sweat  broke  out  on  her  forehead  and  she 
dashed  towards  the  staircase  and  fell  down.  Lying 
prone,  she  hunched  herself  up,  contorted  by  horror, 
as  if  the  cold  hand  were  going  to  seize  her.  Then 
springing  to  her  feet,  she  ran  down  the  stairs,  shout- 
ing: 

"Help!     Mademoiselle  is  dead !     Help!" 

She  was  heard  as  far  as  the  lodge  at  the  entrance. 
The  refugees  ran  up,  calling  to  each  other,  fitienne 
arrived  first.  He  climbed  the  stairs,  four  steps  at  a 
time,  and  his  lantern  lit  up  the  loft. 

The  body  was  swinging  to  and  fro,  frightfully 
elongated.    .    .    .    Yvonne  was  hanging. 

Her  fallen  hair,  loosened  in  the  death  struggle,  hid 
her  face.  One  of  her  arms  was  twisted,  the  palm 
turned  back. 

She  had  said:  "It  is  the  end.  .  .  .  my  little 
mother,"  and  with  one  kick  she  had  thrown  down 
the  stool.   .    .   . 

The  scared  women  halted  on  the  last  steps,  gazing 
at  their  men  who  were  unfastening  the  rope,  while  the 
gardener  lifted  the  little  figure. 

"The  house  is  cursed!"  stuttered  one  of  them. 

Mme.  Dubourg,  on  her  knees  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
was  choking  with  tears,  pouring  forth  for  the  last  time 
distracted  words  of  tenderness.  The  sheet  exactly 
moulded  the  long  frail  body,  bulging  in  the  middle 
and  at  the  knees,  and,  under  the  crucifix  the  eternal 
peace  of  the  folded  hands  could  be  divined. 

"My    darhng,  why    did    you    do    it?     My    beloved 

child!    ..." 

She  rose  abruptly,  wishing  to  raise  the  veil,  but  the 
saint  prevented  her;  he  had  seen  that  swollen  mask. 
It  was  not  necessary  that    .    .    . 

"But  why  did  she  do  it?"  sobbed  Mme.  Dubourg, 
again  prostrate  at  the  bedside  of  her  dead  daughter. 


26o  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"My  God!  tell  me  why?  It  is  abominable.  ...  If 
it  were  my  fault.  .  .  .  Do  not  leave  me  like  this, 
take  pity  on  me,  tell  me  why?" 

She  was  kneeUng  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  it 
was  startling  to  see  the  corpse  lying  on  a  couch,  framed 
with  moss,  and  the  mother  writhing  on  a  green  carpet 
decorated  with  little  silver  fishes  :  No,  it  was  not  a 
room  to  weep  in.  The  consecrated  palms,  the  crucifix, 
the  funeral  tapers,  all  clashed  with  the  bizarre  sur- 
roundings :  the  useless  pieces  of  furniture,  the  huge 
cushions,  the  glaring  screens.  The  light  net  curtains 
kept  their  frivolous  appearance;  on  the  walls,  across 
the  painted  Japanese  trees,  shadows  passed,  shame- 
faced. .  .  .  No  preparations  are  ever  made  for  the 
advent  of  Death.    .    .    . 

Suddenly  Mme.  Dubourg  turned  round  and  stared, 
wild-eyed,  at  Saint  Magloire. 

"Well,"  she  said  in  a  strangled  voice,  "this  is  not 
the  end,  you  are  going  to  save  her.  .  .  .  You  cannot 
let  my  girl  remain  dead.    ..." 

She  rose,  with  a  set  face. 

"You  are  a  saint  after  all.  .  .  .  You  have  worked 
miracles,  I  have  seen  them.  .  .  .  Well,  you  must 
work  this  one.  You  hear  me,  you  will  have  to;  it 
is  my  little  chUd,  she  was  happy  before  you  came  here, 
she  was  always  laughing.  .  .  .  You  must  wake  her 
up.    .    .    ." 

Her  voice  gave  way  suddenly,  drowned  in  tears. 

"Wake  her,  I  beseech  you,  wake  my  little 
Yvonne.    ..." 

The  saint,  supporting  her,  made  her  sit  down. 
Nothing  was  heard  but  her  sobs  and  the  spluttering 
wick  of  the  candle.  In  the  night  the  mad  wind  rushed 
howling,  flinging  itself  at  times  against  the  house,  so 
that  the  shutters  trembled  under  the  impact. 

For  a  long  while  the  saint  gazed  at  the  dead  child, 
then  he  took  two  steps  forward  and  bent  down.  He 
drew  the  veil  aside.    .    .    . 

The   face,   now,    looked   less   tortured.    The   closed 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  261 

eyes  had  found  peace,  the  relaxed  mouth  was  no  longer 
distorted,  and  already  the  cheeks  had  lost  that  dread- 
ful purple  hue. 

Little  empty  body,  forsaken  dwelling  place.  A 
breath  wings  its  way  upwards  and  this  is  all  that  is  left. 
.  .  .  One  breath  sufficed  to  give  bounding  movement 
to  these  stiffened  limbs,  to  fill  this  crushed  little  breast 
with  life  and  song,  to  lend  brilliance  to  these  eyes,  to 
open  these  small  pinched  lips  with  laughter.  Just  one 
breath.    .    .    . 

He  bent  lower  still,  a  prayer  on  his  lips,  and  his 
large  brown  hands  rested  on  the  shoulders  of  the  sleep- 
ing child.  As  he  bent  his  visionary  eyes  upon  her, 
his  breath  passed  across  the  motionless  face.  Just 
one  breath.    .    .    . 

Adele,  who  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
began  to  tremble.  In  the  midst  of  her  tears,  it  seemed 
to  her  suddenly  that  she  saw  a  change  coming  over 
the  face  of  the  dead  girl,  the  features  relaxing,  the 
sunken  eyelids  swelling.  .  .  .  Shaken  by  terror,  she 
thought  she  saw  on  the  face,  that  had  grown  peaceful, 
a  dawning  line  of  bitterness,  a  wrinkle  which  drew 
down  the  mouth  in  a  sorrowful  smile.  Was  she 
emerging  again  from  nothingness,  was  she  conscious  of 
her  life  once  more?  .  .  .  Adele  put  her  hand  before 
her  mouth  and  bit  her  lip  for  fear  of  screaming.  Her 
tears  had  dried  in  a  moment  and,  seeing  clearly,  she 
looked  on  with  wide-open  eyes  and  throbbing 
heart.    .    .    . 

No,  she  must  have  been  mistaken,  overwrought. 
Yvonne's  face  kept  its  look  of  eternal  indifference, 
and  the  saint,  with  pious  hands  pulled  up  the 
sheet. 

Mme.  Dubourg  flung  herself  at  her  brother-in-law's 
feet. 

"Magloire,  I  beseech  you!  ...  Do  not  leave  her, 
give  her  back  to  me  !    .    .    . " 

But  he  shook  his  head,  with  a  far-away  look,  a 
whisper  on  his  lips. 


262  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"WTiy  try  to  keep  her  back?  She  had  borne  her 
share.    ..." 

M.  Fran9ois  Dubourg  arrived  about  eleven  o'clock. 
The  editor  of  the  Frangais,  who  had  been  asked  to 
break  the  news  to  him,  had  found  him  in  a  Montmartre 
restaurant  where,  scarcely  sober,  he  was  finishing  his 
dinner  with  his  mistress.  He  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure during  the  two  hours  of  travel  in  the  motor-car, 
but  after  he  had  shed  the  first  tears,  and  had  spent 
some  time  in  the  death-chamber,  where  there  was  a 
smell  of  ether  mingled  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  he  felt 
giddy.  As  a  result  of  the  shock,  he  was  suffering 
extreme  discomfort,  his  thoughts  seemed  to  dissolve, 
he  grew  dizzy  and  felt  his  legs  giving  way  under  him. 
He  pulled  himself  together,  making  an  effort  to  realise 
the  horror  of  this  tragedy.  Through  a  mist  he  saw 
his  wife  in  tears  and  his  daughter  lying  dead,  and  that 
same  mist  prevented  him  from  thinking.  As  soon 
as  he  shut  his  eyes,  his  arm-chair  seemed  to  slope  and 
dip,  and  he  quickly  opened  his  eyes  again,  his  fore- 
head bathed  in  icy  perspiration.  He  did  not  know 
whether  the  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth  came  from 
drink  or  from  shame.  If  he  had  thought  it  could 
sober  him  he  would  have  torn  his  face  with  his 
finger-nails. 

With  unsteady  gait  he  approached  his  brother.- 

"We  were  so  happy,  Magloire,  so  happy,"  he  said 
in  a  thick  voice. 

Mme.  Dubourg,  worn  out  with  weeping,  could  but 
repeat  : 

"The  good  Lord  will  forgive  her,  won't  He?  She 
was  such  a  good  little  girl.  ...  I  want  to  believe, 
oh,  my  God  !  I  want  to  believe,  so  that  I  may  see 
her  again  some  day.    .    .    . " 

Gerard  stood  sUent  in  a  comer  near  the  mantelpiece. 
He  was  terribly  pale  and  a  deep  furrow  cut  across  his 
forehead.  When  he  had  heard  of  the  suicide,  he  had 
understood  at  once. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  263 

He  gave  a  few  con\nalsive  sobs  when  he  entered 
the  room,  then  he  quieted  down,  and  had  not  uttered 
another  word.  He  was  looking  on.  His  eyes  always 
came  back  to  the  mournful  remains  of  the  little  dead 
girl.  Was  it  only  her  clasped  hands  that  swelled  the 
shroud  in  that  way? 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  suddenly  aged.  Never 
had  he  felt  so  grave,  so  self-possessed.  He  was  proud 
of  standing  upright  behind  his  parents  as  they  knelt 
in  prayer.  He  was  the  man.    .    .    . 

And  gazing  down  at  that  little  sullied  body,  he  felt 
Hate  plunging  its  claws  deep  down  into  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XI 

On  the  very  day  of  Yvonne's  funeral,  the  Dubourgs 
left  Barlincourt  in  the  evening,  and  everyone  felt  re- 
lieved when  the  saint  had  departed. 

Only  the  fanatics  of  the  Cite,  sheltering  in  their 
ruined  hovel,  regretted  his  going;  but  they  still  pos- 
sessed his  doctrine,  and  that  was  the  best  part  of 
himself.  Harassed  b^''  the  priest,  disliked  by  the 
faithful,  they  soon  changed  their  attitude  when  the 
old  man  was  no  longer  there  to  guide  them. 

They  began  by  renouncing  the  Church,  but  as,  in 
spite  of  everything,  they  were  stUl  believers,  they 
wanted  to  continue  to  worship  God,  and,  without 
realising  it,  they  created  a  schism.  Every  Sunday, 
when  the  bell  rang  for  Mass,  they  met  in  an  old  barn 
which  they  had  decorated  in  their  own  fashion.  The 
eldest  among  them  read  the  service,  then  a  ropemaker, 
of  whom  the  Evangelist  was  particularly  fond,  ex- 
pounded the  Gospel  for  the  day,  and  they  sang  psalms, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  an  accordion.  They  glorified 
Magloire  as  a  saint  of  the  martyrology;  they  added 
his  name  to  the  litanies,  and  after  the  "Remember," 
they  regularly  recited  the  prayer  which  the  hawkers 
in  Paris  sold  with  his  photo,  but  which  had  been  dis- 
owned by  the  Evangelist  himself. 

In  spite  of  their  propaganda,  the  schismatics 
recruited  but  one  adherent  :  Milot,  who  arrived  one 
day  in  his  beadle's  uniform,  offering  to  place  his  know- 
ledge of  the  liturgy  and  his  familiarity  with  the 
Church  practices  at  their  service. 

He  did  not  believe  in  this  religion  any  more  than 

in  the  other;    but  he  wanted  to  be  revenged  on  his 

employer  and  on  the  priest  who  had  dismissed  him; 

and  on  the  other  hand,  since  he  had  lost  his  situation 

264 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  265 

on  account  of  Saint  Magloire,  he  proclaimed  the  latter 
as  the  greatest  man  of  modern  times,  so  that  he  might 
acquire  merit  through  having  suffered  for  him.  For 
the  same  reason  he  was  proud  of  having  lost  his  leg 
at  Verdun  rather  than  at  the  Chateau  de  Carleul,  or 
in  the  Berlingot  trenches,  whose  names  sounded  less 
heroic. 

But  the  presence  of  this  noisy  fellow  in  the  new 
church  did  not  tend  to  attract  seriously-minded  people, 
and  the  priest  of  Barlincourt  did  not  lose  a  single 
member  of  his  flock  thereby. 

It  angered  the  other  strikers  to  see  this  handful  of 
visionaries  content  with  telling  their  beads  while  they 
waited  for  the  coming  of  Justice,  and  they  vented  on 
them  the  rancour  of  their  own  misfortunes.  They 
even  came  and  attacked  them  in  their  retreat,  break- 
ing dowTi  what  was  left  of  the  fences.  These  were  the 
last  gasps  of  the  strike. 

The  strike  funds  were  now  completely  exhausted, 
and  the  weaker  spirits  began  to  talk  of  re-opening 
negotiations.  A  week  after  the  departure  of  the 
Evangelist,  M.  Aubernon  saw  his  workmen  return, 
humiliated  and  beaten. 

"It  is  clear  that  he  is  no  longer  there  to  stir 
them  up,"  he  said  triumphantly. 

He  did  not  understand  that  hunger  alone  was  re- 
sponsible for  his  victory. 

In  Paris,  the  return  of  Magloire  Dubourg  caused  a 
certain  excitement.  The  day  after  Yvonne's  death, 
the  newspapers  began  to  talk  about  the  saint  and  his 
family,  and  seizing  upon  an  incident  provoked  by 
Gerard  on  the  day  of  the  funeral  when  he  ordered  M. 
Aubernon  to  leave  the  procession  (which  the  other  did 
without  replying)  they  had  insinuated  that  the  young 
girl  had  no  doubt  been  driven  to  suicide  to  save  her 
honour.  These  discussions  stirred  up  public  opinion 
for  a  moment;  they  made  a  diversion  from  the 
anxieties  of  the  day  :  the  losses  of  the  French  troops 


266  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

in  Africa  and  the  growing  ravages  of  the  mysterious 
influenza.  People  began  to  pry  into  the  private 
Hfe  of  the  Dubourgs;  they  criticised  the  conduct  of  the 
mother;  they  descanted  unreservedly  on  the  liaison 
of  the  father;  then,  after  a  few  days,  they  began  to 
talk  of  something  else.  But  the  happiness  of  the 
family  was  gone  :  completely  swept  away  by  scandal. 

In  Paris,  too,  Saint  Magloire  had  lost  some  of  his 
popularit5^  but  the  humblest  and  most  destitute  turned 
despairingty  to  him.  Ruined  by  unemployment,  deci- 
mated by  the  influenza  plague,  they  believed  that  the 
Man  of  Miracles  alone  could  save  them.  The  old  man 
therefore  resumed  his  trips  to  the  suburbs.  Bands  of 
ragged  women  sometimes  escorted  him,  singing  beneath 
the  windows  when  he  went  home;  and  the  house  of 
the  Dubourgs,  situated  right  in  the  middle  of  the 
town,  was  soon  besieged  all  day  long  by  unhappy  folk, 
sick  people  and  loafers;  so  great  were  the  crowds,  that  it 
became  necessary  to  call  in  the  police  to  disperse  them. 

Marie  Louise,  imprisoned  in  her  own  house,  saw  no 
one  but  M.  Van  den  Kris  and  from  time  to  time  Father 
Labry.  As  for  Frangois  Dubourg,  who  was  completely 
distracted  by  the  eccentricities  of  his  brother,  he 
slept  ostensibly  at  the  hotel,  attributing  this  unusual 
arrangement  to  his  sorrow,  and  was  only  visible  at 
lunch-time.  He  arrived  with  an  anxious  air,  fearing 
the  remonstrances  of  his  elder  brother,  and  also  afraid 
that  Magloire  might  bring  back  the  germs  of  the 
epidemic  in  the  folds  of  his  big  cloak. 

"Is  he  here?"  he  would  ask  at  once  as  he  entered 
the  house.  And  if  Gerard  answered  "Yes,"  he  would 
take  a  vaporiser  and  spray  the  whole  room  with  some 
patent  chemical  that  smelt  vilely. 

Sometimes  the  saint  hardly  spoke  to  him;  on  other 
days,  on  the  contrary,  he  would  drag  him  into  the 
study  and  roughly  rebuke  him.  The  saint  had  such 
an  ascendancy  over  his  younger  brother  that  the  latter 
did  not  dare  to  reply.  With  lowered  eyes,  he  listened, 
impenitent,  while  the  Evangelist  reproached  him  with 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  267 

his  conduct,  and,  as  he  talked,  Francois  gazed  atten- 
tively at  the  trousers  of  the  saint  and  the  soiled  cuffs 
of  his  velvet  coat,  and  wondered  how  on  earth  he  had 
managed  to  make  himself  in  such  a  mess. 

"He'll  end  by  giving  us  all  the  plague,"  he  thought 
as  he  held  his  breath. 

As  soon  as  his  brother  ceased  speaking,  Fran9ois 
agreed  in  toto  vath.  everything  he  said,  ajid  made  for 
the  door  at  full  speed  without  even  thinking  of  saying 
good-bye. 

"Ouf  !"  he  gasped  on  the  stairs.  "I  would  rather 
have  fifty  kicks  behind  than  such  discussions.  But 
what  is  he  hoping  to  get  at?  By  God  !  I  shall  end 
by  not  coming  home  at  all.   .    .    ." 

Magloire  Dubourg  very  rarely  spoke  of  Yvonne;  he 
seemed  akeady  to  have  forgotten  her,  and  for  that 
cruelty  Marie  Louise  bore  him  a  deadly  grudge. 

Gerard,  like  his  parents,  had  drifted  away  from  his 
uncle.  He  thought  incessantly  of  his  sister's  tragic 
end,  though  he  never  spoke  of  it;  and  his  secret  sor- 
row, his  shame,  his  longing  for  vengeance  had  turned 
him  into  a  taciturn  and  violent  man.  He  reminded 
his  father  of  Magloire  as  a  child. 

He  never  left  the  house  except  to  go  to  the  studio, 
or  if  he  did  not  go  there,  he  would  take  his  paint-box 
and  sketch  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  usually  on  the 
days  when  M.  Van  den  Kris  was  coming. 

But  Yvonne's  suicide  was  to  have  more  serious 
consequences  than  these.  Poor  people  regarded  it  as 
an  example.  Their  whole  outlook  was  changed  by 
the  theories  of  the  saint,  and  they  told  themselves 
that  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  lay  down  their  burden. 
This  life  had  been  cruel  :  the  next  would  be  better. 
Who  would  not  willingly  take  risks  to  achieve  happi- 
ness in  that  uncertain  lottery.  .  .  .?  Surely  it  was 
in  order  to  show  them  the  way  that  the  saint  had 
sacrificed  his  niece;  one  had  but  to  follow  her  example. 
So  the  suicides  began. 
That  strange  epidemic,  against  which  nothing  could 


268  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

be  done,  soon  increased  alarmingly.  In  a  single  week 
a  hundred  and  twenty  suicides  were  recorded  in  Paris 
alone.  The  population  was  demoralised  by  it.  Old 
men  threw  themselves  from  windows;  charcoal  stoves 
were  lighted  in  lodging  houses,  mothers  flung  them- 
selves under  Metropolitan  trains  with  their  babies  in 
their  arms;  and  every  morning  new  cases  of  hanging 
were  discovered.  At  Barlincourt,  the  lady  from  Paris, 
who  lodged  at  the  Mayor's  house,  was  one  of  the  first 
to  kill  herself,  having  given  up  all  hopes  of  a  miracle. 

This  contagious  madness  soon  spread  into  other 
spheres;  tradesmen,  who  had  been  regarded  as  well 
off,  ended  their  lives  with  a  revolver  shot,  and  rich 
women  asphyxiated  themselves,  driven  by  fear  of  some 
unknown  horror — plague  or  revolution. 

Magloire  Dubourg  alone  was  held  responsible  for  all 
these  tragedies  and  the  hatred  against  him  increased. 
From  the  pulpit  at  the  Madeleine,  a  preacher  con- 
demned the  suicides  and  anathematised  the  "man 
possessed"  who  inspired  them.  The  Evangelist, 
however,  continued  to  preach  resignation  and  courage, 
and  condemned  those  who  fled  from  the  world  without 
contributing  their  share  of  effort  in  it.  He  even  suc- 
ceeded in  checking  these  tragic  follies  among  the  lower 
classes. 

But  although  he  was  able  to  make  a  successful  resist- 
ance against  the  suicides,  he  could  do  nothing  against 
the  plague,  which  was  blindly  reaping  its  harvest. 
Day  by  day  people  heard  of  fresh  deaths  in  their 
immediate  circle;  one  funeral  followed  another  at  the 
door  of  the  churches;  the  hospitals  overflowed  with 
patients,  and  a  regular  panic  swept  over  terrified  Paris. 
For  a  week  people  fought  each  other  in  the  railway 
stations,  the  trains  for  the  South  were  crammed,  and 
despite  the  bad  weather,  motor-cars  in  hundreds  were 
to  be  seen  passing  out  through  the  Porte  dTtalie. 
Whole  streets  seemed  to  be  cleared  of  their  inhabi- 
tants; from  the  Concorde  to  Auteuil  nothing  was  to 
be  seen  but  sleeping  houses,  with  closed  shutters. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  2C9 

In  the  populous  quarters  the  infection  was  alive 
filce  vermin  that  could  not  be  crushed.  As  soon  as 
people  in  a  lodging  house  heard  the  little  dry  cough 
that  announced  the  terrible  disease,  they  fled  from 
the  doomed  patient.  In  this  way,  alone,  uncared  for, 
people  died  every  day.  Wlien  the  neighbours  could 
no  longer  hear  either  cough  or  rattle  behind  the  door, 
they  notified  the  municipality.  The  post-mortem 
doctors  worked  at  furious  speed,  and  stories  were  told 
of  men  buried  ahve. 

Crowds  gathered  in  the  streets  in  front  of  the  great 
white  posters  of  the  Prefecture  headed  "Preventive 
Measures."  The  curious  read  them  and  shrugged 
their  shoulders.  Leading  physicians,  with  the  serene 
indifference  of  learned  men,  explained  therein  the 
precautions  to  be  taken.  These  people  who  hved  in 
corruption  were  told  that  they  must  wash  their  hands 
with  disinfectant  before  each  meal,  that  they  must 
never  breathe  through  the  mouth,  that  they  must  air 
their  rooms  frequently  and  maintain  a  moderate 
temperature  in  them,  and  that  they  must  take  care 
to  have  the  bedding  of  the  patients  disinfected. 

"And  what  are  we  going  to  sleep  on?" 

"  Drink  hot  toddy  indeed  !  Will  they  pay  for  the 
rum?" 

"Nonsense,  it's  only  rich  people's  fads.  Don't 
take  any  notice." 

At  the  Gobelins,  at  the  Pont-de-Flandres,  in  the 
Saint-Paul  quarter,  there  were  positively  hotbeds  of 
infection  which  were  marked  by  black  crosses  on  the 
maps  published  in  the  newspapers.  People  were 
warned  not  to  go  into  them  on  any  pretext,  and  a 
deputy  had  even  proposed  that  a  sanitary  cordon  be 
established  round  these  overcrowded  districts  to  pre- 
vent any  contact  with  the  outside  world. 

It  was  in  these  accursed  quarters  that  Saint  Magloire 
spent  his  days,  never  leaving  the  bedside  of  the  sick, 
'ho  but  for  him  would  have  had  no  nursing. 

When  he  came  home  in  the  evening  to  the  Dubourgs, 

s 


270  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

ihe  other  tenants  shut  themselves  up  nervously  in 
their  flats,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  passed  by  the  con- 
cierge  hastily  opened  all  the  windows  on  the  staircase. 

"What  is  he  meddling  for,  going  to  visit  the  sick?" 
said  the  neighbours.  "Is  he  a  doctor?  He  ought  to 
be  stopped,  it  is  a  public  danger." 

The  newspapers,  for  their  part,  treated  him  as  an 
alarmist,  and  accused  him  of  spreading  the  epidemic 
by  going,  without  any  precaution,  from  the  contami- 
nated houses  into  districts  which  were  still  free. 
"When  is  this  Dangerous  Chatterer  to  be  silenced?" 
asked  the  Echo  de  France  in  large  headlines. 

However,  despite  the  terrible  menace  of  the  plague, 
all  who  had  money  sought  relaxation.  There  was  a 
frantic  gaiety,  a  need  for  forgetfulness,  and  people 
laughed  and  spent  their  money,  unwiUing  to  think  of 
the  morrow. 

"What  admirable  morale!"  exclaimed  Frangois 
Dubourg  with  enthusiasm.  "You  might  think  the 
years  of  the  war  had  come  back.    .    .    ." 

Christmas  Eve  had  never  been  so  noisy,  so  gorgeous 
as  it  was  that  year.  At  the  doors  of  the  great  restaur- 
ants and  the  theatres,  shivering  loafers  watched  the 
procession  despite  the  drizzling  rain.  In  Montmartre, 
outside  a  well-known  cabaret,  a  hundred  of  them  were 
crowded  together.  A  large  awning  was  stretched 
across  the  pavement  and  a  carpet  laid  down;  women 
stopped  a  moment  as  they  alighted  from  their  car- 
riages, and  threw  back  their  furs,  to  show  their  gowns, 
their  pearls,  their  bare  skin. 

Working  girls,  down  at  heel,  sneered  jealously. 
Their  men  dragged  them  away,  exasperated. 

"Come  on,  let's  clear  out,  it  makes  me  sick.    ..." 

Between  the  curtains  of  the  first  floor  there  slid  a 
thread  of  light,  and  the  silhouettes  of  dancers  could 
be  seen  passing.  The  music,  so  gay  up  there,  took 
on  a  note  of  sorrow  under  the  rain.  The  loafers  looked 
on,  with  raised  eyes,  their  feet  in  the  cold  mud.    .    .    . 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  271 

Those  drawTi  net  curtains  were  thicker  than  a  wall, 
harder  to  cross  than  a  frontier.  It  was  another  world, 
another  humanity  that  hved  there.  .  .  .  Joy  and 
wretchedness,  what  a  contrast  of  heritage  ! 

Some  Uttle  girls,  under  their  breath,  hummed  the 
melodies.  People  stamped  their  feet  to  warm  them, 
and  the  damp  soles  of  their  boots  squeaked  as  they 
drew  them  out  of  the  slush.  A  drunkard  growled  out 
insults  as  each  new  customer  entered,  but  not  too 
loud,  for  fear  of  the  policeman. 

"Ah,  the  saint  ought  to  come  and  shake  them  up, 
those   .   .    ."he  repeated. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  hand  put  him  aside,  and  before 
the  bemedalled  porter  could  make  a  movement,  the 
man  who  had  just  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd 
entered  the  restaurant  and  passed  up  the  stairs. 

"It  is  he!  There  he  is.  .  .  .  It's  Saint  Mag- 
loire  !    .    .    . " 

They  sprang  after  him;  but  the  porter  and  the 
policeman  hurled  themselves  forward,  while  the  negro 
in  the  red  cloak  shut  the  iron  gate. 

There  was  a  sudden  scramble;  a  woman  slipped  on 
the  sticky  pavement  and  fell,  and  when  the  noise  died 
down,  one  heard,  between  two  shouts,  that  the  music 
was  no  longer  playing. 

Magloire  Dubourg  had  just  entered  the  dining  room 
on  the  first  floor,  and  by  the  time  the  guests  at  supper 
noticed  him  he  was  already  standing  on  the  musicians' 
platform.  Then  suddenly  there  was  a  burst  of  hoot- 
ing. 

People  left  their  tables,  rushed  forward  amid  a 
clatter  of  broken  crockery,  climbed  on  chairs;  and 
the  old  man  was  left  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd 
of  merry-makers.  They  were  not  ill-disposed :  they 
looked  more  inclined  to  chaff.  Several  of  them  wore 
cotillon  favours  on  their  heads :  paper  jockey  caps, 
peasant  women's  bonnets.  When  the  manager  came 
up  to  turn  out  the  Evangelist,  the  guests  held  him 
back. 


272  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"No,  no,  don't;  it  will  be  amusing.  .  ,  .  Speech' 
Speech  ! " 

The  saint  towered  above  them.  On  account  of  the 
rain  he  was  wearing  the  big  cape  of  early  days  ;  it 
covered  him  in  its  stiff  folds,  which  were  shining  with 
water.  He  waited  a  moment,  for  the  noise  of  their 
gaiety  to  die  down,  then  he  spoke. 

"Are  you  sure  you  have  the  right  to  laugh?"  he 
asked.  "WTien  the  plague  is  reaping  its  harvest,  when 
misery  holds  the  poor  in  its  grip,  when  lads  sent  out 
to  sacrifice  mark  the  African  trails  with  their  bodies, 
do  you  think  you  have  the  right  to  laugh  .  .  .? 
Your  ghoulish  rejoicings  are  a  provocation  to  men 
and  an  insult  to  God  !     Go  away  !     Go  home  ! " 

A  booing  arose  in  the  crowded  room  and  then  ended 
in  a  huge  burst  of  laughter.     Jests  flew  to  and  fro. 

"There  you  are,  he's  started,  turn  the  handle!" 

"Give  the  orator  a  glass  !" 

"Go  on,  Magloire  !" 

And,  in  the  scramble,  they  trampled  the  broken 
glasses  underfoot.  The  voice  of  the  saint  rose  above 
the  uproar. 

"Laugh  away!  Stuff  yourselves  as  fast  as  you 
can.  God  will  soon  come  to  clear  the  table,  you 
stupid  louts." 

The  hooting  began  again,  more  boisterous  than 
before.  One  guest,  already  drunk,  wanted  to  fling 
himself  on  the  old  man  who  was  insulting  them. 

"You  may  try  to  stifle  remembrance  with  shouts 
and  laughter;  you  may  stop  up  your  ears  and  turn 
away  your  eyes,  but  the  catastrophe  which  is  coming 
cannot  be  averted.  .  .  .  Laugh  on,  your  gaiety  wiU 
be  but  a  drop  in  an  ocean  of  tears.    ..." 

"You  are  doddering,  you  old  chatterbox,"  cried 
somebody.   .   .   . 

The  saint  did  not  hear. 

"It  is  not  Hell  that  I  am  predicting  for  you,  but 
eternal  life,  the  same  kind  of  life  that  you  have  made 
for    others.   .   .   .   No    demons    with    red    pitchforks; 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  273 

only  yourselves,  who  will  have  been  your  own  execu- 
tioners.   ..." 

"That's  enough,"  they  cried.  .  .  ,  "That's  not 
funny!    ..." 

"  Music,  music  ! "  called  others.    .   .   . 

The  pianist  sat  down  again  on  his  stool,  at  the  foot 
of  the  platform,  and  attacked  a  negro  air,  hammering 
out  the  chords  with  all  the  strength  in  his  arms.  Some 
of  the  women  guests  sang  with  him.  The  men  were 
yelling.  From  all  sides  celluloid  balls  aimed  at  the 
saint  were  thrown  on  to  the  platform. 

"Verily,  I  tell  you,"  he  continued,  "the  flood  is  not 
made  of  the  waves  of  the  sea  but  of  the  waves  of 
humanity.    ..." 

"What  do  we  care?"  cried  a  voice  in  the  racket. 

Some  men  in  dinner  jackets  began  whistling  through 
their  keys. 

"Nothing  will  remain  of  your  generation,  when 
that  flood  has  passed,"  the  apostle  went  on  shouting, 
"not  even  whitened  bones.  .  .  .  Yet  one  word  would 
have  sufficed  to  save  you,  the  word  for  which  Christ 
accepted  the  Cross  :  Love,  love  !    .    .    . " 

"Hurrah  for  love!  Long  live  Saint  Magloire!" 
screamed  the  half -dressed  women. 

The  orchestra  began  to  play  again.  The  noise  in- 
creased, and  spread  to  the  street  outside  :  yells  could 
be  heard  in  the  square.  The  saint  turned  his  blazing 
glance  on  the  women,  who  were  drumming  their  heels 
on  the  floor  : 

"  You  who  came  out  of  the  mud  of  the  suburbs,  and 
deny  your  miserable  origin,  beware  ! " 

Then  he  turned  to  the  men,  who  were  gesticulating 
wildly  : 

"Beware,  you  who  have  done  nothing  for  the  cause 
of  Justice.    .    .    ." 

Hooting,  hisses,  and  music  swamped  his  voice,  but 
he  could  still  be  heard  in  snatches  : 

"You  children  of  the  rich,  overdressed  good-for- 
nothings   who   have   always   lived   on    the   labour   of 


274  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

oLhers.  .  .  .  Profiteers  whose  coffers  have  been 
swelled  by  wars  and  disasters.  .  .  .  Harlots  who 
pay  for  your  luxury  wlih  your  shame.    .    .    ." 

He  lashed  them  all,  pointing  with  his  finger;  and, 
yelling  and  sneering,  the  revellers  replied  with  insults. 

"I  curse  you  in  the  name  of  the  world's  anguish," 
cried  the  saint  with  a  prophetic  gesture. 

Pushed  forward  by  those  behind,  the  men  in  the 
front  row  advanced  threateningly  upon  him.  Instead 
of  throMing  their  harmless  balls,  they  were  now  armed 
with  walking-sticks  and  bottles. 

"Put  him  out!  ...  Go  back  to  the  negroes! 
....     Throw  him   out !    .    .    ." 

A  threatening  crowd  surrounded  him. 

"  To  Charentoni  with  him  !  .  .  .  Sham  priest.  .  . 
Go  on,  take  him  by  the  feet." 

Hands  were  already  outstretched  to  seize  him, 
when  the  saint,  retreating  a  step,  drew  himself  up 
and  flung  open  the  two  lappets  of  his  mantle. 

"Come  no  nearer,"  he  roared.  .  .  .  "I  bring 
3^ou  the  plague  in  the  folds  of  my  cloak.    ..." 

Thoroughly  frightened,  the  crowd  held  back.  Some 
with  arched  backs,  pushed,  and  the  whole  mass  re- 
treated in  a  body.     Sharp  cries  rose  from  the  throng. 

"The  plague.  ...  He  has  come  from  the  hos- 
pitals !    .    .    ." 

Stepping  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  seeming 
suddenly  to  have  grown  taller.  Saint  Magloire  pursued 
them  with  the  thunder  of  his  voice  : 

"Breathe,  it  smells  of  death.  .  .  .  Breathe,  it  is 
death  that  I  bring  to  yom  feast.    ..." 

Then  panic  ensued.  The  guests  spread  into  the 
other  rooms,  with  haggard  eyes,  and  rushed  down  the 
stairs.  A  nameless  terror  had  taken  hold  of  them. 
Each  one  seemed  to  feel  Death  already  in  the  air  he 
breathed.  In  the  cloak-room  they  snatched  garments 
haphazard.  Women  strunbled  and  rolled  beneath  the 
feet  of  men  whose  one  wish  was  to  get  away.  On  the 
*■  Charenton — French  lunatic  asylum. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  275 

first  floor  the  piercing  screams  of  hysteria  could  be 
heard.  And  all,  as  they  fled,  looked  so  distracted  that 
the  curious  crowd,  massed  outside,  drew  away  from 
them  as  though  the  plague  itself  was  hard  upon  their 
heels. 

This  latest  demonstration  of  the  saint  caused  wide- 
spread consternation  in  Paris,  for,  on  the  day  after 
Christmas,  two  customers  and  a  head  waiter  of  the 
night  cabaret  died  suddenly  of  the  dread  plague. 
People  shuddered.  .  .  .  They  began  to  wonder 
whether  the  old  man,  who  had  already  shown  his 
power  to  heal,  had  not  also  the  power  to  slay.  Some 
even  whispered  that  it  was  he  who  brought  this  un- 
known scourge  from  Africa. 

The  newspapers  attacked  him  with  stUl  greater 
violence,  and  accused  him  of  stirring  up  hatred  and 
fomenting  disturbances.  The  revolutionary  organs, 
afraid  of  this  incoherent  propaganda,  also  disowned 
him. 

Then  a  report  by  Dr.  Blum  was  published  at  the 
Academy  of  Medicine  and  read  by  Professor  Porcher, 
his  teacher.  The  young  neurologist  strove  to  demon- 
strate that  the  wonder-worker  was  a  neurotic  subject, 
suffering  from  religious  monomania,  and  that  his 
progress  towards  general  insanity  could  be  scientifically 
traced  in  his  career.  The  report  caused  imanimous 
rejoicings  :  why,  of  course  it  was  a  madman  they  had 
to  do  with;    why  had  not  people  said  so  before? 

The  young  doctor  examined  the  history  of  his  subject 
from  his  abrupt  departure  from  his  mother's  house 
onward  :  sudden  and  complete  disappearance  of  family 
affection.  This  first  attack  had  been  preceded,  as 
usual  in  such  cases,  by  a  period  of  unrest,  the 
Religious  Melancholy  referred  to  by  Morel  and  Brous- 
sais,  which  was  sufficiently  explained  by  the  intense 
mental  labour  into  which  young  Magloire  Dubourg 
had  thrown  himself  without  preparation. 

After  this  first  attack  came  a  long  interval  of  respite; 
out  the  subject,  far  from  taking  the  rest  which  was 


276  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

essential  in  such  a  case,  had  gone  to  Africa;  and  cli- 
mate, privations,  absence  of  hygiene,  fever,  added  to 
an  excessive  intensity  of  thought  had  encouraged  the 
secret  progress  of  the  trouble.  By  degrees,  a  complete 
transformation  was  to  be  observed  in  the  tastes,  the 
sentiments,  the  opinions  of  Magloire  Dubourg.  By 
his  own  confession,  from  that  period  onward  he  lost 
appetite  and  sleep  :  warning  signals  of  the  culminating 
attack.  His  sentiments  were  so  perverted  that  even 
the  instinct  of  self-preservation  disappeared  :  the 
Evangelist  sought,  and  desired  death.  Finally  the 
patient  became  the  victim  of  an  "  idee  fixe,"  he  believed 
himself  a  messenger  of  God,  and  wanted  to  reorganise 
the  world.  Then  came  illusions  of  the  senses,  halluci- 
nations; external  impressions  were  no  longer  controlled 
by  the  intelligence.  However,  it  was  only  a  question 
of  partial  insanity.  Apart  from  his  monomania,  Mag- 
loire Dubourg  had  fuUy  preserved  his  reason. 

"But  watch  him  when  he  is  preaching,"  Dr.  Blum 
pointed  out,  "the  attack  is  then  at  its  height;  and 
you  will  see  a  childish  expression  spread  over  his 
countenance;  his  gestures  and  his  voice  become  very 
gentle,  just  as  Carre  de  Montgeron  in  the  eighteenth 
century  observed  in  the  case  of  persons  subject  to 
convulsions.  Then,  without  reason,  this  childish 
gentleness  gives  place  to  an  inexplicable  fury;  the 
subject  grows  excited,  his  eyes  blaze,  it  is  certain"  that 
at  such  moments  he  had  lost  all  control  over  himself. 
He  is  but  the  sport  of  the  caprices  of  the  "  idee  fixe." 

This  memorandum,  which  was  commented  on 
throughout  the  press,  dealt  a  rude  blow  to  the  repu- 
tation of  the  saint.  People  no  longer  took  him 
seriously.  It  was  only  among  the  humblest,  the  very 
poor,  that  he  was  still  listened  to  and  admired  :  and 
there  only  because  he  promised  them  happiness,  not 
because  he  loved  them. 

Had  he  paid  attention  to  such  things,  he  woulci 
have  noticed  that  he  was  treated  with  less  respect 
than  hitherto.     In  the  improvised  hospital  which  had 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  277 

been  set  up  in  the  military  zone  with  a  view  to  at  least 
a  partial  isolation  of  the  contagious  cases,  the  doctors 
gave  hnn  but  a  grudging  welcome.  Their  science  had 
to  confess  itself  powerless.  One  single  miracle  would 
have  been  sufhcient  to  bring  ridicule  upon  them,  and 
they  followed  him  mistrustfully  from  ward  to  ward. 

The  sick  who,  in  the  early  days,  roused  by  a  flash 
of  hope,  used  to  lift  themselves  on  their  pUlows  when 
they  caught  sight  of  the  saint,  now  lay  supine  in  their 
beds,  all  alike,  with  their  poor  shrivelled  hands  trailing 
on  the  sheets.  The  glassy  look  of  the  dying,  the 
glittering  eyes  of  fever,  fastened  themselves  upon  him. 
Said  some  disappointed  : 

"He  cannot  heal  us." 

Others  malignantly  added : 

"He  doesn't  want  to." 

When  he  went  out,  he  mingled  with  the  crowd  of 
relatives  who  had  come  for  news  and  were  turning 
away,  shivering  and  muddy,  having  handed  in  their 
oranges  at  the  office.  The  tramping  of  these  wretched 
folk  formed  his  escort,  and  in  front  of  the  sad  proces- 
sion people  instinctively  looked  for  a  hearse.  As 
they  passed,  all  stared  at  Saint  Magloire,  and  drew 
away  from  him;  in  their  glances  he  read  the  same 
entreaties  and  the  same  resentment. 

One  evening  a  little  girl  attached  herself  to  him.  Her 
leg  must  have  been  cut  off  recently,  for  she  still  walked 
awkwardly,  pulling  herself  along  with  the  help  of  her 
two  cutches. 

"Why  didn't  you  heal  mamma? "  she  said  in  a  poor 
little  strangled  voice.  "  I  shall  be  all  alone  now.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  you  stUl  could  :  she  only  died  to-day." 

The  saint  hastened  on,  sick  at  heart. 

In  the  hospital  which  he  had  just  quitted,  the  sick 
were  so  numerous  that  they  had  been  obliged  to  lay 
them  on  stretchers,  between  the  beds.  Their  breaths 
mingled,  and  death  moved  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
like  some  dismal  word  of  command  passed  on  by 
soldiers.     Each  one  cursed  his  neighbour. 


278  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

"He  fidgets  so  that  I  can't  sleep." 

"He  coughs  in  my  face.  ...  He  smells 
bad.    ..." 

And  when,  at  night,  a  rattle  rose  from  a  corner  of 
the  ward,  they  told  each  other  casually  : 

"No.  i8's  going." 

Then,  turning  over,  they  tried  to  sleep  again. 

"I  can  do  nothing,"  the  Principal  Medical  Officer, 
discouraged,  had  said,  to  the  Evangelist.  "As  fast 
as  you  cure  ten,  a  hundred  more  come  in.  We'd  have 
to  open  up  Paris,  let  in  air.    ..." 

Saint  Magloire  remembered  those  words,  as  he 
crossed  the  £toile  district  with  its  deserted  houses. 
Air.  .  .  .  Big  windows  open  to  the  light.  .  .  . 
And  he  gazed  at  these  great  vessels  with  their  stone 
prows,  at  all  those  mansions  and  houses  with  closed 
fronts.  They  were  like  selfish  faces  that  did  not  want 
to  see.  The  owners  were  in  fisterel,  at  Saint  Moritz, 
in  their  castles  at  Anjou.    .    .    . 

All  along  the  Riviera,  they  were  dancing  for  the 
poor.  The  "Amaranth  Ball"  at  Cannes  had  produced 
more  than  sixty  thousand  francs.  It  was  like  fairy- 
land, said  the  papers.  ...  At  that  same  time,  in 
the  fever-barracks,  for  want  of  a  mortuary,  they  were 
dragging  the  dead  out  under  a  tarpaulin  and  the  winter 
rain  kept  the  death-watch  over  them,  weeping  over 
their  gleaming  shrouds. 

Saint  Magloire  wandered  about  for  more  than 
an  hour  in  those  silent  streets;  then,  having 
thought  things  over,  he  betook  himself  to  the 
Elysee. 

He  had  hardly  entered  under  the  archway  when  a 
young  man  stopped  him,  and  two  plain-clothes  police- 
men, who  now  followed  the  Apostle  continually, 
hurriedly  overtook  him. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"To  see  the  President  of  the  Republic,"  replied 
Magloire  simply. 

TTie    others    looked    at    him    bewildered,    and    the 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  279 

handful  of  inquisitive  people  who  had  collected  at 
once  began  to  laugh. 

"The  President  of  the  Republic  does  not  receive 
people  like  that.  .  .  .  You  must  send  in  a  request 
for  an  audience.    .    .   ," 

"I  cannot  wait,"  answered  the  old  man. 

The  officer  on  duty  having  been  notified  by  an 
orderly  ran  up. 

"It  can't  be  done  in  this  way,  sir,"  he  said 
nervously,  pushing  away  a  group  of  idlers.  "You 
must  understand  that  the  President  of  the  Republic 
cannot  receive  everyone  who  comes  in  hke  this.    ..." 

"Not  even  to  save  the  lives  of  thousands  of  men?" 
said  Saint  Magloire. 

"I  cannot  discuss  the  matter,  sir,  that  is  not  my 
business.  But  I  repeat  that  audiences  are  not  granted 
in  this  fashion,  even  to  you.    .    .    ." 

"  Least  of  all  to  him  ! "  cried  someone  in  the  growing 
circle  of  onlookers. 

The  Evangelist  did  not  move.     He  raised  his  voice. 

"Go  and  tell  the  President  of  the  Republic  that  a 
man  has  come  to  ask  him  to  rescue  thousands  of  vic- 
tims from  the  plague.  Tell  him  that  the  orphan 
children  of  the  suburbs  implore  him  with  their  little 
hands  outstretched.    ..." 

The  words  echoed  under  the  archway,  and  people 
came  out  of  the  corridors,  while  others  ran  up  from 
the  street.  The  crowd  of  onlookers  was  blocking  the 
way,  and  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore  motor-cars 
brought  to  a  stand-still  were  sounding  their  horns,  for 
the  crowd  was  overflowing  on  to  the  roadway.  The 
dinner  guests  could  not  get  in;  they  were  surprised  at 
finding  themselves  in  the  midst  of  such  a  mob;  they 
wanted  to  know  what  was  going  on  and  tried  to  see 
over  the  heads  of  the  crowd. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"It  is  Saint  Magloire  making  a  disturbance." 

They  gave  an  exasperated  "Ah!" 

"Again!     Oh,    Lord.   .   .    .   Are    they   never   going 


28o  SAINT   MAGLOTRE 

to  send  him  to  prison  !  .  .  .  Why,  a  man  like  that 
is  a  disaster  !  Let  them  take  him  to  Charenton  and 
have  done  with  it.    .    .    ." 

In  the  uproar,  the  saint  could  still  be  heard  dis- 
puting with  the  officer  and  the  attendants;  possibly 
in  the  hope  that  they  might  yet  let  him  in.  But 
suddenly,  a  violent  jolt  shook  the  crowd;  the  Republi- 
can Guards  had  come,  and  with  fists  and  shoulders 
they  drove  the  people  away,  throwing  out  indiscrimi- 
nately on  to  the  pavement  guests  in  evening-dress  and 
street  loafers. 

"  Come   .    .    .   Move  on !    .    .    . " 

In  a  moment  the  archway  was  freed,  and  two 
policemen  seized  Saint  Magloire  by  the  arm.  A 
commissionaire  rushed  up. 

"No,  no,  not  that.  Leave  the  gentleman  alone. 
Orders.    ..." 

The  Evangelist,  therefore,  v/as  pushed  outside  with 
the  others.  He  had  lost  his  hat  in  the  scramble,  and 
bareheaded,  surrounded  by  shouting  strangers,  he  felt 
for  a  moment  dizzy,  on  the  slopes  of  that  moving 
street  where  the  lights  were  dimmed  by  the  rain. 
The  commissionaire  had  followed  him. 

"Come,  get  into  this  cab,"  he  said,  opening  the 
door  of  a  taxi.  And  he  gave  the  address  of  the  saint, 
v/hich  was  familiar  to  everyone.  A  few  shouts,  a  few 
hisses  followed  the  car;    then  it  was  over. 

The  saint,  although  discouraged,  was  still  unwilling 
to  give  up  his  projects  :  too  many  lives  were  at  stake. 
He  told  the  driver  to  take  him  to  the  offices  of  the 
Frangais,  whose  editor-in-chief  he  had  often  seen  in 
Barlincourt. 

That  powerful  personage  received  him  himself, 
thinking  that  he  might  be  able  to  get  something  out 
of  the  interview,  but  he  soon  regretted  it.  The  saint 
told  him  briefly  of  his  ill-luck  at  the  Elysee,  then  he 
explained  what  he  had  wished  to  ask  of  the  President. 
To  prevent  the  epidemic  from  eating  into  the  over- 
crowded houses,   they  must  get  the  empty  flats  and 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  281 

the  mansions  of  the  wealthy  quarters  put  at  the 
disposal  of  working-class  famihes.  He  repeated  what 
the  P.M.O.  had  said  to  him  :  open  up  Paris,  that  way 
lay  salvation. 

^  The  editor-in-chief,  stupefied  and  dumbfounded, 
listened  without  finding  anything  to  say  in  reply.  He 
sat  on  the  edge  of  his  desk  and  looked  in  turn  at 
the  saint  and  the  sub-editor,  whom  he  had  sent  for 
and  who  was  smiling  and  biting  his  lips.  At  last  he 
let  himself  go. 

"But  really,  Monsieur  Dubourg,"  he  interrupted 
(in  the  early  days,  he  had  called  him  "cher  Maitre," 
for  want  of  a  better  name),  "Your  plan  won't  hold 
water.  It  is  confiscation  of  property  pure  and  simple 
that  you  are  asking  for." 

Saint  Magloire  thought  he  had  been  misunderstood. 

"No,  no.  It  is  only  a  question  of  occupying  thou- 
sands of  rooms  that  are  not  being  used  at  all  and  of 
putting  into  them  temporarily  these  wretched  people 
that  are  condemned  to  death.  When  they  know  for 
what  purpose  their  houses  are  being  taken,  the  owners 
and  the  tenants  will  be  the  first  to  approve." 

This  candour,  carried  to  the  point  of  aberration, 
cut  the  groimd  from  under  the  feet  of  the  editor-in- 
chief.  He  even  looked  at  the  saint  with  more 
compassion  than  anger,  and  while  he  listened,  he  kept 
sa5dng  "  Phew,  phew  ! "  as  though  he  wanted  to  blow 
out  some  hidden  fire.     In  the  end,  he  exploded  : 

"But,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said  as  he  took  the  saint 
familiarly  by  the  shoulders,  "  I  know  what  I  am  talk- 
ing about  :  I  have  got  a  house  in  the  Rue  de  la  Pompe. 
WeU,  I  should  not  think  it  at  all  funny  to  have  a  crew 
of  ragamuffins  installed  there;  they  would  make 
everything  dirty,  and  leave  me  all  their  vermin,  and 
then  make  off  with  my  linen  as  a  souvenir,  with  a 
little  silver  thrown  in." 

"And  you  don't  think   ..." 

"Come,  come,"  continued  the  editor-in-chief, 
apoplectic,    "I   have  good   reason   to   be   mistrustful; 


282  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

I  had  some  refugees  in  1914.  I  know  what  they  are  : 
clothes  washed  in  the  bath  and  tobacco  ashes  all  over 
the  cai-pets.  ...  If  I  have  got  to  the  point  where 
I  can  afford  a  house  of  my  own,  I  haven't  done  it  in 
order  to  turn  the  place  into  a  night  shelter.    ..." 

Magloire  Dubourg  gazed  at  him  in  amazement. 

"So,"  said  he,  "I  make  my  appeal  to  you  in  the 
name  of  the  mothers  who  are  suffering,  of  the  children 
who  are  dying,  and  you  answer  me  by  talking  about 
your  hnen  and  your  carpets.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  you 
;!.re  a  criminal?  " 

The  editor-in-chief  turned  away,  exasperated,  raising 
his  arms  to  Heaven. 

"It  is  no  use  to  discuss  it,"  he  announced  emphatic- 
ally, "we  don't  talk  the  same  language.  ...  I  am 
a  matter-of-fact  person,  I  don't  go  looking  for  the 
good  of  humanity  in  the  moon." 

Magloire  Dubourg  shook  his  head. 

"Happiness  will  be  on  earth,  and  throughout 
eternity.    ..." 

The  editor-in-chief  shrugged  his  shoulders  : 

"In  eternity  or  in  the  moon,"  said  he,  "it's  all  the 
same  to  me.    ..." 

The  Evangelist  turned  towards  the  door. 

"I  shall  find  hearts  less  pitiless  than  yours,"  he 
said,  looking  round  for  the  last  time.  "Cost  what  it 
may,  they  will  follow  me." 

And  he  went  out. 

Then  the  sub-editor  looked  at  the  editor-in-chief, 
who  was  still  agitated. 

"That  man,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  conviction,  "is  a 
monster  of  goodness." 

When  it  was  reported  at  the  Prefecture  of  Police 
that  Saint  Magloire,  at  the  head  of  a  column  of  de- 
monstrators, was  coming  down  from  the  Boulevard 
de  la  Chapelle  towards  the  centre  of  Paris,  the  officials 
thought  at  first  that  it  was  a  case  of  one  of  those 
peaceful   processions    which    he    had    frequently    been 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  283 

organising,  so  the  news  caused  no  anxiety.  Usually 
these  processions  dispersed  of  their  own  accord,  as 
soon  as  the  Apostle  had  gone  home.  But  other  reports 
followed,  urgent  telephone  calls  from  police  commis- 
sioners, and  it  became  evident  that  on  this  occasion 
the  affair  was  serious.  The  band  of  rioters,  its  nimi- 
bers  swelling  at  all  the  cross-roads,  had  just  entered 
the  Rue  Lafayette,  routing  a  barrier  of  poUce;  and 
new  columns,  at  some  mysterious  word  of  command, 
were  forming  in  all  the  populous  quarters  of  the  City. 
One  such  column  came  yelling  down  the  Faubourg  du 
Temple,  following  a  cross  taken  from  the  Belleville 
Church,  and  another  from  the  Gobelins  marching 
behind  a  great  black  flag,  came  by  way  of  the  Boule- 
vard de  I'Hopital. 

The  police  sprang  into  motor  lorries,  platoons 
of  Republican  Guards  set  off  at  the  double; 
and  at  the  barracks  the  alarm  was  given  in  case 
of  emergency. 

The  arrival  of  the  first  band  on  the  boulevards  was 
the  signal  for  a  panic.  They  came  suddenly  out  of  the 
Faubourg  Poissonniere,  preceded  only  by  a  long-drawn- 
out  clamour  which  no  one  understood;  then  the  tragic 
rabble  came  in  sight.  They  were  marching  in  disorder, 
perhaps  three  thousand  of  them,  dragging  in  their 
train  hand-carts,  a  laundry  van  which  they  were 
pulling  along  by  the  shafts,  cabs  that  they  had  taken 
from  their  drivers.  All  these  vehicles  overflowed  with 
shabby  odds  and  ends,  brats  screaming  with  joy 
perched  up  on  the  bundles.  They  might  have  been  a 
crowd  of  madmen  coming  back  from  a  raid. 

"To  the  Champs  Elysees  !     To  the  swells'  houses!' 
they  shouted. 

The  rabble  swept  by  like  a  gust  of  v.ind.  In  the 
light  of  the  street  the  livid  features  of  a  demented 
woman  might  be  seen  as  she  held  up  her  child  to  show 
it  to  the  crowd;  a  child  that  had  ceased  to  move.  Some 
groups  were  singing.  Standing  on  the  seat  of  a  car- 
riage   a   man    seemed    to    be    making    a   speech,  and 


284  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

between   two  yells  of  the  mob  "the  saint    .    ,    .    the 
plague    ..."  could  be  heard. 

People  were  afraid  of  things  that  they  could  not 
4;learly  see  :  the  most  trivial  utensils  looked  like 
V/eapons.  One  of  the  demonstrators,  in  mockery,  was 
brandishing  a  long  broom,  a  wolf's  head  which  he 
lifted  up  to  the  windows;  and  shuddering  womeu 
thought  they  saw  the  first  pike  of  the  revolution. 

"To  the  Champs  Ely  sees  !    .    .    ." 

Behind  the  mob  trailed  the  lame  and  footsore  :  a 
family  pushing  an  overloaded  cart,  old  men  who  could 
not  keep  up.  .  .  .  The  uproar  died  away  in  the 
distance. 

But  far  off,  towards  the  Opera  House,  new  cries 
could  be  heard,  and  distant  clamouring,  still  more 
violent,  suddenly  filled  the  night  and  made  the  low 
sky  tremble.  The  column  which  had  just  passed  by 
had  met  the  rabble  which  the  saint  was  leading;  and 
this  army  of  the  poor  was  now  pushing  its  way,  irre- 
sistibly, towards  the  Madeleine.  Behind  it,  restaurants, 
even  theatres,  were  emptied.  With  fear  in  their  hearts 
people  who  had  been  dining  late  sprang  into  carriages 
or  hastened  towards  the  Metropolitan.  They  had  but 
one  idea  now  :  to  get  home  quickly  and  lock  themselves 
in.  Lights  went  out  in  the  windows,  as  though  they 
were  afraid  to  show  themselves;  people  muffled  up  and 
leaned  out  over  the  balconies,  straining  their  ears  to 
catch  the  terrifying  noises  that  re-echoed  on  all  sides 
What  tragedy  was  the  night  preparing? 

Squadrons  of  Guards,  dashing  by  amid  the  din  ot 
galloping  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  sabres,  added  to  the 
anxiety  instead  of  allaying  it.  Ambulances,  recognis- 
able by  their  bells,  could  be  heard  in  the  distance. 

"Let  us  get  home  quickly.  .  .  .  There  are 
wounded.    .    .    ." 

The  first  encounter  with  Authority  took  place  in  the 
Rue  Royale.  The  police-barrier  which  advanced  elbow 
to  elbow,  with  clenched  fists,  was  at  first  obliged  to 
retreat,  forced  back  by  the  mass,  but  a  dotachment 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  285 

arrived  at  the  double,  their  truncheons  hidden  under 
their  capes;  and  a  bloody  affray  took  place  among 
the  overturned  carts,  in  the  midst  of  shrieking  women. 
Workmen  with  bleeding  faces  shouted  as  they  defended 
themselves,  knots  of  men  rolled  in  the  mud;  gleaming 
objects  were  dragged  out  feverishly  from  the  litter  on 
the  carts.  Behind  the  police  came  the  Guards, 
charging  with  sheathed  sabres,  and  human  bundles 
could  be  seen  rolling  beneath  the  hoofs  of  the  horses. 

The  demonstrators  retreated  when  the  police,  after 
having  swept  away  the  first  band,  turned  upon  the 
other,  the  more  numerous  of  the  two,  which  had  come 
from  Pantin.  But  these  people  had  aheady  broken 
through  several  police  barriers  and  were  expecting 
further  attacks  :    they  were  ready. 

As  the  police  approached,  like  a  dense  black  wall,  a 
savage  cry  went  up : 

"Charge!" 

And  with  one  accord  the  rioters  at  the  head  of  the 
crowd  sprang  forward,  pushing  their  hand-carts  before 
them  like  battering  rams.  Several  policemen,  struck 
full  in  the  chest,  fell  beneath  the  wheels;  others  found 
themselves  suddenly  isolated.  Caught  in  an  entangle- 
ment of  carts,  paralysed  by  the  press,  bewildered, 
fending  off  blows,  striking  out  at  haphazard,  they  tried 
to  extricate  themselves  from  the  howling  wave  that 
swept  them  bleeding  along  with  it.  A  hundred  yards 
behind,  the  Republican  Guards  were  hesitating  to 
charge,  for  groups  of  police  separated  them  from  the 
demonstrators;  but  the  mob  was  upon  them  at  once 
and  the  battle  began.  In  the  midst  of  the  torrent, 
horses  reared  suddenly,  and  beating  the  air  with  their 
hoofs  fell  back  into  the  eddying  mass,  smashing  skulls 
as  they  came  down.  Men  sprang  up  behind  the  riders, 
seizing  them  by  the  throat,  while  others,  hanging  on  to 
their  boots,  pulled  their  feet  out  of  the  stirrups;  and 
the  Guards  rolled  down  upon  the  roadway,  in  a  crash 
of  steel  cuirasses.  Their  arms  were  hastily  snatched 
from  them :    sabres,  pistols.    .    .    . 

T 


286  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

Suddenly  revolver  shots  were  heard,  and  the  crowd, 
with  renewed  yells,  rushed  in  pursuit  of  the  last  flying 
pohcemen. 

A  commissioner  in  a  black  overcoat,  with  a  knotted 
scarf,  shouted  to  the  cyclists  : 

"Help.  .  .  .  Hurry  up.  .  .  .  They  must  send 
big  reinforcements." 

After  the  column  had  passed  by,  the  boulevard 
was  filled  with  shadows,  for  the  demonstrators  were 
breaking  the  arc  lamps  with  stones  and  bolts.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  night  were  advancing  with  them. 

Some  cries  of  "Long  live  Saint  Magloire"  still  rose 
in  the  tumult,  but  the  clamouring  of  the  multitude 
smothered  them  at  once.  In  the  darkness  there  could 
be  heard  the  ringing  sound  of  shop  windows  being 
broken.  A  woman,  from  an  upstairs  room,  cried  out 
"Help  !"  but  her  husband  must  have  pulled  her  back, 
and  the  window  closed  upon  her  cries. 

When  the  fray  was  over,  the  crowd  hovered  for  a 
moment  in  uncertainty.  AU  kinds  of  incongruous 
objects  were  being  trampled  underfoot :  army  caps, 
hats,  broken  wood,  wrecked  carts.  The  clamour  died 
down;    they  were  waiting  for  a  word  of  command. 

Cries  of  "Saint  Magloire  !"  rang  out  like  an  appeal. 

But  the  saint  had  already  passed  on  with  his  band 
of  followers  by  way  of  the  Tuileries. 

At  that  moment,  a  growing  uproar  was  heard.'  An- 
other  column  was  coming  by  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes. 
They  were  the  unemployed  from  Levallois,  the  rag- 
pickers of  the  zone  among  whom  the  plague  was  raging, 
the  gas-fitters  from  Clichy,  the  firemen  from  the  State 
Railways  with  their  faces  stiU  black  from  the  engines, 
a  whole  terrible  multitude  urged  along  by  a  woman, 
that  same  fortune-teller  whom  the  saint  encountered 
ererywhere.  She  was  marching  at  the  head  of  the 
crowd,  dishevelled  and  crying  : 

"  Come  with  us,  the  Prophet  Daniel  is  leading  us  ! " 

The  roar  of  the  two  torrents  mingled  and  the  two- 
fold orowd  poured  into  the  Rue  Royale. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  2I7 

Bandaged  heads,  bleeding  faces,  rendered  the  »ob 
cnore  alarming  than  ever.  They  were  no  longer  hidi- 
crous,  with  the  vans  they  dragged  along  and  their 
bundles  of  clothing  :    they  were  terrifying. 

The  black  army  invaded  the  Champs  Ely^ees,  and 
filled  the  avenue  with  its  disorderly  multitudes.  It 
had  begun  to  rain  again  :  the  night  was  sweating  with 
agony. 

The  crowd  could  no  longer  be  discerned  in  the 
shadows,  but  the  life  of  it  could  be  felt,  and  its  fluc- 
tuations could  be  divined  by  the  noises  that  arose. 
The  wave  of  the  plague-stricken  passed  up  the  avenue, 
seeking  for  the  saint  and  the  houses  he  had  promised 
them.  They  had  grouped  themselves  by  streets,  by 
districts,  by  factories.  Scattered  families  hailed  each 
other.  The  few  Ughts  that  remained  burning  on  the 
carts  caught  up  faces  with  hollow  cheeks,  making  them 
stand  out  of  the  invisible  crowd  in  a  saffron  halo. 
More  were  coming,  yet  more.  .  .  .  The  tragic  flood 
rolled  on  unceasingly. 

Under  the  trees,  a  noise  of  broken  windows  could  be 
heard  :  the  summer  restaurants  were  being  invaded 
in  search  of  food.  Motor-cars,  caught  in  the  crowd, 
were  held  up,  smashed  in,  demolished;  and  women  in 
evening  dress  could  be  seen  fleeing,  their  cloaks 
wrenched  off,  their  hair  in  disorder.  It  was  a  whirl- 
wind of  a  moment  only,  a  din  of  vociferations,  then 
the  great  dark  river  continued  to  flow  onward. 

Round  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  where  there  had  also 
been  a  fight,  thousands  of  rioters  were  already  as- 
sembled. Some  had  come  up  from  Javel  and  Crenelle, 
others  down  from  the  Epinettes  and  Saint-Ouen.  A 
large  body  had  come  from  Puteaux,  carrying  with  them 
unemployed  from  the  motor-works,  the  factory  women, 
workmen  dismissed  from  the  Arsenal  and  stevedores 
from  the  river-boats  with  striped  jerseys  and  bare 
throats. 

A  rumour  spread  suddenly  that  Magloire  Dubourg 
was  in  the  Avenue  de  Bois,  near  the  Rond-Point,  and 


288  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

that  the  distribution  of  quarters  had  just  begun.  The 
rabble  at  once  moved  forward,  dragging  its  carts  with 
it,  and  filed  along  in  front  of  the  police  who  were  massed 
on  the  sidewalks,  and  did  not  dare  to  retaliate,  though 
they  were  struck  with  stones  and  pieces  of  metal. 
During  this  time,  the  brawling  started  again  in  the 
Champs  Elysees,  where  the  Republican  Guards  charged 
with  drawn  sabres  down  the  Avenue  de  I'Alma.  The 
noise  of  this  affray  could  be  heard  from  the  ;£toile. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  Avenue  Malakoff,  progress 
became  impossible.  The  great  mass  trampled  and 
twisted;  the  wheels  of  the  carts  were  locked,  the  ranks 
of  people  inextricably  tangled.  The  crowd  and  the 
night  were  both  black.     Not  a  gleam  of  light.    .    .    . 

Suddenly  great  open  windows  were  illuminated  and 
the  crowd  saw  some  of  their  friends  gesticulating 
against  the  glowing  screen.  A  cheer  rose  instantly 
from  the  multitude,  and  a  fresh  eddy  carried  them 
closer  to  the  house  which  had  been  invaded. 

The  Evangelist  must  be  near  at  hand,  but  no  one 
knew  where.  People  learnt  what  was  going  on  by 
snatches  or  phrases  that  floated  over  their  heads. 
There  was  a  report  that  the  whole  of  the  Avenue 
Bugeaud  had  already  been  allocated,  and  that  another 
mob  was  coming  up  by  the  Porte  Dauphine. 

In  the  adjacent  streets,  which  were  also  in  darkness, 
it  was  possible  to  move  about.  Rowdy  groups  came 
and  went,  doors  were  broken  in. 

There,  too,  a  few  houses  had  been  invaded,  but  the 
assailants  had  hardly  made  themselves  masters  of  the 
buildings  when  they  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  they 
came  downstairs  again  quickly,  on  the  alert,  afraid 
of  being  hemmed  in.  Some  hooligans  were  passing 
out  bundles;  silver  was  being  packed  up  in  silk 
curtains. 

"Let's  go  home,  they're  looting.  It  will  come  to  a 
bad  end  ! " 

In  the  Avenue  Bugeaud,  everything  had  been  man- 
aged at   the  beginning  in   the  most   orderly  fashion; 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  289 

the  saint  had  gone  first  into  the  houses,  and  had 
dragged  out  of  the  terrified  concierges  vague  rephes 
that  might  have  been  taken  for  consent.  The  selected 
families  moved  in  quickly,  clinging  to  their  few  bundles; 
but  they  had  no  sooner  settled  down  than  parents  and 
children  alike  began  to  feel  ill  at  ease  in  these  huge 
apartments.  Accustomed  as  they  were  to  live  in  close 
proximity  to  each  other;  able,  by  stretching  out  their 
hands,  to  touch  all  their  four  walls  at  once,  they  were 
lost  in  these  great  rooms  with  the  big  bay  windows, 
these  suites  of  drawing  rooms,  with  theii-  impressive 
portraits  and  all  their  museum  furniture,  that  repre- 
sented neither  the  cupboard  nor  the  dresser  of  their 
daily  life.  The  peace  of  these  dwellings,  whose  thick 
walls,  portieres,  and  carpets  muffled  all  noise,  im- 
pressed these  people,  who  were  only  used  to  great 
bare-walled  barracks  where  every  sound  echoes. 

To  dispel  their  unrest  and  banish  their  feeling  of 
isolation,  they  soon  opened  the  windows  to  watch  the 
others  swarming  in  the  streets,  or  they  went  out  on  to 
the  landings.  All  these  new  tenants  soon  came  to- 
gether, and  seated  on  the  stairs,  they  began  to  chat. 
They  felt  better  there,  less  uncomfortable.  Some  did 
not  dare  to  stay  at  all  and  went  away  with  their  be- 
longings. 

Beggar  women  accustomed  to  spend  their  night  in 
the  doorways,  homeless  folk  with  dripping  garments, 
were  sleeping  pell-mell  on  the  carpets  and  the  sofas 
with  a  cushion  under  their  heads.  Not  one  of  them 
had  dared  to  undress  and  lie  down  in  a  bed. 

In  small  houses,  shady  characters  broke  the  furni- 
ture and  rifled  everything  as  soon  as  they  got  in.  Other 
occupants  caught  them  at  it  and  were  scandalised. 

"You  have  no  right.  .  .  .  We  shall  tell  the  others, 
.    .    .    You  are  thieves.    .    .    ." 

Then  rows  had  begun.  One  workman  had  been 
killed  with  a  knife  by  some  ruffians  whom  he  had  tried 
to  tackle.  Little  by  little,  the  houses  allocated  by  the 
saint  were  emptied.     All  their  late  inmates  gathered 


290  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

outside  and  began  to  grumble.  Men  who  had  come  up 
drunk  from  the  cellars  yelled  louder  than  anj'one, 
uttering  aimless  threats. 

"We've  had  no  food  since  midday,"  screamed  the 
women,  "let  him  work  a  miracle.  He  has  only  to  say 
so,  and  we  shall  get  something  to  eat.    .    .    ." 

The  crowd  was  already  less  dense.  Uneasy  groups 
were  setting  out  for  their  own  districts. 

When  Saint  Magloire  came  out  of  the  last  house  in 
the  Avenue,  there  was  a  rush  towards  him.  In  the 
din  of  their  cries  one  could  hear  : 

"We  want  food!  If  the  police  come,  what  are  we 
to  do?" 

"They've  killed  a  man." 

"There  are  people  plundering.  ,  ,  ,  Look,  they 
are  loading  their  carts." 

They  eddied  about  the  saint,  jostling  each  other. 
Disputes  broke  out  in  their  midst,  men  shouting  into 
one  another's  faces. 

"Well,  what  if  they  are  plundering?  What  next, 
what  belongs  to  the  rich  belongs  to  us.  ,  ,  ,  He  said 
so.    .    .    ." 

"You  just  came  to  rob  !" 

"What  if  I  did.  .  .  .  We're  sick  of  only  plucking 
pigeons." 

Shoving  with  their  shoulders,  dealing  out  blows  in 
the  crush,  the  burglars  pushed  their  way  into  the  front 
ranks,  and  soon  the  saint  had  none  but  ruffians  around 
him.  They  were  mostly  very  young;  pallid  youths 
with  evil  faces  and  a  handkerchief  knotted  round  the 
neck;  others  were  older  and  better  dressed,  with  the 
garments  and  the  air  of  buUies  out  of  small  public- 
houses. 

"They  can  do  nothing  to  you,"  cried  the  saint  to 
the  helpless  crowd.  "Let  each  one  go  without  fear 
into  the  house  that  has  been  assigned  to  him.  .  .  , 
No  one  has  the  right  to  turn  you  out  and  drive  you 
back  to  your  graves." 

But  the  clamouring  continued : 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  291 

"Food!    Food!" 

"The  police  will  come.     They're  stealing  everything." 

The  saint  raised  his  arms. 

"I  forbid  you  to  loot,"  he  shouted.  "Seize  the 
thieves ! " 

The  ruffians  jeered  at  him  : 

"  Let  'em  come  and  try  I " 

The  old  man  went  on : 

"I  hear  that  riots  broke  out  this  evening,  that  places 
have  been  demolished,  pillaged.  I  condemn  these 
crimes.  .  .  .  Those  who  commit  such  deeds  do  not 
belong  to  us." 

The  evil  gang  laughed  yet  louder.  Jests  flew  back- 
wards and  forwards. 

"  We  haven't  got  a  chateau  at  Barlincourt.   ..." 

"He's  entertaining  us  so  as  to  give  the  'cops' 
time  to  come  up.    ..." 

It  was  the  scum  of  the  riot  that  was  swarming  now 
about  the  saint,  those  who  had  followed  simply  to 
break  in  and  rob. 

The  others  had  gone  off,  group  by  group.  They 
had  tramped  for  hours  in  the  freezing  mud;  and  the 
wind  that  blew  in  gusts,  driving  the  sleet  before  it, 
had  cooled  their  fever.  They  wanted  to  flee  in  soli- 
tude, through  the  side-streets,  for  fear  of  the  police. 
In  the  night  the  measured  footfalls  of  marching  troops 
could  be  distinguished. 

There  were  not  more  than  a  few  thousand  left  be- 
tween the  Place  Victor  Hugo  and  the  Avenue  du  Bois. 

Now  that  they  no  longer  felt  the  support  of  the 
crowd  stretching  out  indefinitely  behind  them,  their 
boldness  disappeared,  they  scented  danger. 

"Where  is  Magloire?  He  must  make  another 
speech.   ..." 

"We  are  betrayed.    ..." 

Dead  drunk,  or  mad,  the  fortune-teller,  dishevelled, 
was  singing  at  the  window  of  a  first-floor  room,  and 
the  rabble  were  egging  her  on  with  their  shouts. 

Then  to  the  north,  a  sudden  glow  lit  up  the  sky;   a 


292  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

lofty  red  cupola  raised  itself  against  the  darkness,  its 
tragic  gleam  growing  and  fading  at  the  will  of  the 
flames  :  a  great  fire  had  broken  out  in  the  direction  of 
Belleville.    .    .    . 

A  roar  went  up.  A  great  "  Oh  ! "  of  surprise.  Then 
cries  of  fear,  oaths.  Rage  seized  upon  them,  a  savage 
fury  that  made  them  see  red. 

"They're  burning  our  houses.  It  was  a  trick  to 
get  us  away  from  our  homes.  .  .  .  They're  burning 
the  poor  districts  to  stop  the  plague.    ..." 

They  aU  screamed  together,  gesticulating,  brandish- 
ing the  sabres  taken  from  the  Guards;  and  a  stampede 
swept  down  the  Avenue  Bugeaud. 

"The  saint  has  betrayed  us.  .  .  .  They're  burning 
our  houses.    ..." 

A  blind  invy  seized  them.  Revolver  shots,  fired  at 
random,  were  heard.  Broken  window-panes  crashed 
down  noisily.  In  the  upper  floors  the  burglars  hastily 
ended  their  job  by  throwing  bundles  down  to  their 
accomplices. 

"Death  to  Magloire  !     Kill  him.    ..." 

The  fighting  began,  an  invisible  massacre  in  which 
nothing  could  be  distinguished  but  the  cries  of  the 
wounded  and  the  resounding  blows  of  the  attackers. 
But  suddenly  a  shout  stopped  them. 

"Dragoons  !" 

They  had  no  time  to  pull  themselves  together  : 
already  the  gallop  of  the  cavalry  was  upon  them, 
coming  from  the  Porte  Dauphine,  and  all  along  the 
Avenue,  there  was  the  scramble  of  a  sauve-qui-peut, 
a  screaming  flight,  a  gasping,  jostling  mob,  while  the 
strugglers  rolled  beneath  the  horses'  hoofs. 

At  the  same  moment  a  similar  charge  came  up  the 
Avenue  du  Bois  at  full  speed,  and  there  the  same  flight, 
the  same  cries  followed. 

In  the  darkness  horses  broke  their  legs  against  the 
abandoned  hand-carts,  and  horsemen  fell  to  the 
ground.  Behind  the  cavalry  came  the  police,  cap- 
turing small  bodies  of  rioters,  whom  they  struck  down. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  293 

As  one  platoon,  bayonet  in  hand,  flung  itself  upon 
a  group,  the  men  sprang  back,  and  some  of  the  women 
fell  to  their  knees. 

"Do  not  strike!"  someone  cried,  throwing  himself 
before  the  police. 

It  was  Saint  Magloire,  very  pale,  with  a  little  blood 
on  his  face.  The  police  surrounded  him.  The  officer 
commanding  the  charge  sprang  from  his  car  and  ran 
up  when  he  understood  what  was  happening. 

"Do  you  arrest  me?"  the  saint  asked  him,  recog- 
nising the  man  who,  a  few  months  before,  had  urged 
him  to  leave  Paris. 

The  Prefect  looked  at  him,  troubled.  He  remem- 
bered that  at  their  first  meeting  the  saint  had  said  to 
him:  "You  wUl  not  darel"  And  now,  this  evening, 
he  had  left  his  little  girl  at  home,  dying,  struck  down 
by  the  scourge.  An  unconquerable  fear  filled  his 
heart,  the  fear  of  some  mysterious  connection  between 
the  step  he  was  about  to  take  and  the  little  life  that 
was  trembling  in  the  balance.  .  .  .  The  policemen 
looked  at  him,  waiting  for  his  orders. 

But  was  not  this  night  of  pillage,  this  abortive 
revolt,  the  collapse  of  the  power  of  Magloire  Dubourg? 
Wovild  not  the  plague  come  to  an  end  too,  directly  his 
dictatorship  over  the  populace  had  ceased? 

"Yes  !     I  arrest  you  !"  he  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

Four  men  flung  themselves  at  once  upon  the  saint 
and  dragged  him  away. 

A  workman,  with  his  temple  cut  open,  lay  on  his 
back  in  his  death  agony. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Magloire  Dubourg  found  it  restful  to  be  alone  in  the 
villa  at  Barlincourt,  where  Death  seemed  to  have  left 
something  of  its  silence.  Old  fitienne  cooked  his 
meals  and  looked  after  him  as  best  he  could;  the  saint 
hardly  ever  spoke  to  him. 

In  spite  of  the  cold  he  would  remain  seated  on  the 
steps  of  the  terrace  for  long  hours,  motionless;  or  on 
frosty  mornings  he  would  walk  dreamily  about  the 
park,  often  forgetting  the  hour  of  lunch.  The  frosted 
twigs  cracked  beneath  his  step  like  barley-sugar.  The 
air  was  keen  and  cruel.  Under  the  rosy  sun,  the  leaf- 
less trees  where  the  mistletoe  nested  lazily  traUed 
their  misty  shadows  on  the  ground;  on  the  branches 
the  snow  had  laid  its  soft  white  down. 

His  glance  alighted  on  things  without  seeing  them; 
nothing  could  distract  him  from  his  reverie.  One 
memory  pursued  him  :  the  great  Forest  to  the  south 
of  Ouesso.  It  is  an  impenetrable  world  of  lianas,  of 
trees  and  plants,  where  never  an  axe  has  hewn  a  path- 
way, a  still  virgin  domain,  vast  as  a  whole  coimtry. 
From  the  rotting  soil  to  the  tops  of  the  giant  citrons, 
it  is  a  tangle  of  verdure,  cascades  of  sticky  branches, 
a  formidable  confusion  of  mingled  boughs,  of  stifled 
plants,  of  slender  palms,  of  luxuriant  undergrowth, 
an  inextricable  jumble  where  the  long  shafts  of  the 
lianas,  burnished  like  bayonets,  may  be  seen  between 
the  leaves.  Even  game  cannot  find  its  way  into  that 
Forest.  Only  snakes  glide  in,  white  ants  swarm  there, 
and  skipping  monkeys  race  along  the  green  highway  of 
the  branches.  The  blacks  have  named  this  mysterious 
region  " Djamba  na  mangombe"  :  the  forbidden  place. 

That  prophetic  phrase  haunted  him.  Was  it  not 
for  him  that  a  bUnd  man  crushing  millet  had  spoken 

294 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  295 

one  day  of  the  "forbidden  place? "  He  had  left  Africa, 
abandoned  his  faithful  negroes,  crossed  the  seas  and 
vainly  preached  the  word  of  God  to  stony  hearts  that 
did  not  understand.     Djamba  na  mangombe.    .   .    . 

On  the  evening  of  his  arrival  the  evicted  workmen, 
who  were  still  housed  in  the  lodge,  would  not  open 
the  gate  for  him.  The  drunkard  growled  behind  the 
iron  gates  that  "he  was  responsible,"  that  the  gardener 
was  out,  and  that  he  was,  "so  to  speak,  the  care- 
taker"; if  the  accordion-player  had  not  interfered,  the 
saint  might  have  had  to  stay  outside.  As  for  the 
third  tenant,  he  had  some  weeks  earlier  joined  the 
schismatics  in  their  hovel,  and  on  Sundays  he  put  on 
his  white  blouse  to  hear  Mass,  which  now  drew  only  a 
congregation  of  five  or  sLx. 

Milot  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  withdraw  from  the 
sect.  In  his  double  capacity  of  Colonial  veteran  and 
dismissed  beadle,  he  regarded  himself  as  the  sole 
repository  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Apostle,  and  after 
serious  disagreements  with  the  leader,  he  had  resumed 
his  liberty  :  Milot  insisted  on  genuflexions  and  conse- 
crated bread,  the  other  would  not  hear  of  them. 
Agreement  was  therefore  out  of  the  question. 

This  rupture  had  not  prevented  Milot  from  con- 
tinuing to  defend  the  saint,  far  from  it.  Now  when 
everyone  was  deserting  him,  when  the  newspapers 
were  overwhelming  him  with  insults,  when  Dr.  Blum 
was  building  up  a  reputation  for  himself  by  proclaiming 
him  a  madman,  the  cripple  remained  faithful  to  his 
cause,  as  obstinately  determined  to  extol  the  Evan- 
gelist as  he  had  once  been  to  disparage  him.  He  had 
even  quarrelled  with  the  Trembler,  who,  once  more  a 
victim  to  his  palsy,  blamed  the  saint  for  all  his  sufferings. 

At  Dumarchey's,  where  he  now  behaved  as  though 
he  were  the  landlord,  Milot  argued  with  the  factory 
kands,  who  were  being  taken  on  again,  a  few  at  a  time, 
after  they  had  been  reduced  to  the  greatest  straits 
and  had  nm  up  debts  that  it  would  take  months  to 
pay  off. 


296  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"He  told  you,  Saint  Magloire  did,  that  your  pockets 
were  empty  and  that  you  would  soon  go  bust,"  he 
bellowed  at  the  counter.  "  It  takes  more  than  an 
eight-day  strike  to  re-make  the  world  and  keep  the 
scum  from  getting  on  top." 

"See  here,"  interrupted  one  of  the  workmen,  indi- 
cating the  Dumarchey  girl  with  a  wink,  "we  haven't 
got  lady  friends  to  fatten  us  up.  If  you  want  food, 
you've  got  to  scratch  for  it." 

This  did  not  convince  the  cripple. 

"Those  are  reasons  that  won't  wash,"  he  went  on, 
brandishing  the  bottle  of  vermouth.  "If  all  the  poor 
devils  had  some  in  their  stomachs,  it  is  a  certainty 
that  the  masters  couldn't  make  themselves  sick  of 
indigestion  any  longer,  while  the  others  are  rotting  in 
hospital.  But  it's  no  good  you  ranting  against  the 
Army.  Wliat  you  need  is  to  be  stuck  into  a  uniform 
with  a  number  on  your  tunics,  and  a  non-com.  at  your 
heels,  to  put  some  courage  into  you.  As  soon  as  you 
get  into  civvies,  with  your  Sunday  hats  and  your  fifty- 
franc  suits,  you're  good  for  nothing.  These  damned 
profiteers  could  make  you  spit  up  everything  down 
to  your  blood,  and  the  cowards  that  wouldn't  fight 
could  make  you  pay  the  cost  of  the  War;  and  none 
of  you  opened  your  mouths.  WTiy,  I'm  ashamed  to 
be  a  man.  ...  If  the  whole  nation  had  agreed  to 
meet  on  the  same  day  at  the  Chambre  des  Deputes, 
to  say  they'd  had  enough  of  it,  you'd  have  seen  that 
they'd  have  rushed  the  laws  through  quick  enough. 
Only,  the  fellows  never  budged.  They'll  come  down 
in  their  hundreds  and  thousands  to  the  Boulevards  to 
see  the  Carnival  go  by;  they'll  tread  on  each  other's 
toes  for  a  whole  day  outside  a  station  to  see  Charlie 
Chaplin  steam  in,  but  when  it  is  a  case  of  something 
worth  while,  there's  not  one  of  'em  will  come  out  of 
his  house  for  it.  Well,  then,  they'd  better  not  grumble 
so  much;  it's  not  hearts  they've  got — it's  dish-cloths  ! 
If  only  they'd  listen  to  Magloire.    ..." 

But  all  his  eloquence  was  of  no  avail,  and  except 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  297 

for  the  landlady,  who  swore  by  him,  he  had  so  far 
converted  nobody.  Moreover,  in  proportion  as  he 
gained  a  footing  in  the  house,  he  grew  less  and  less 
revolutionary,  and  his  demands  for  social  reform  be- 
came purely  theoretical;  and  when  it  was  decided 
that,  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  he  and  the 
Dumarchey  girl  should  get  married,  which  made  a 
landlord  of  him,  his  evolution  was  still  further 
hastened. 

By  degrees,  in  all  good  faith  and  without  realising 
it  in  the  shghtest,  he  developed  into  a  sworn  opponent 
of  all  his  old  theories.  In  particular  he  set  his  face 
against  violence — perhaps  to  save  the  glassware — and 
while  perpetually  sheltering  himself  behind  the  name 
of  Saint  Magloire,  he  constituted  a  one-man  party  of 
moderate  anarchism,  anti-clerical  Catholicism  and 
pacifist  militarism.  All  this  gave  him  an  excuse  for 
shouting  as  loud  as  ever,  and  attacking  all  men  with- 
out ever  agreeing  with  any. 

Apropos  of  nothing  at  all  he  would  begin  a  discussion 
about  the  transmigration  of  souls — which  he  compared 
to  wine  decanted  from  one  bottle  to  another — and  he 
placidly  referred  the  task  of  pouring  oil  on  the  troubled 
waters  of  society  to  the  centuries  to  come.  So  great 
was  his  admiration  for  the  saint  that  finally  he  decided 
to  dedicate  the  inn  to  him.  He  ordered  some  pots  of 
paint,  climbed  up  the  ladder  himself  and  painted  on 
the  signboard  in  huge  letters  : 

"THE  SAINT  MAGLOIRE." 

Then,  down  below,  in  somewhat  smaller  type : 

"Grand  Ball  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

The  absurd  juxtaposition  caused  some  laughter  at 
first,  but  Milot  was  very  dignified  about  it,  and  when 
after  the  January  riots  Magloire  Dubourg  came  back 
to  Barlincourt,  he  paid  him  a  formal  visit,  with  his 


298  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

two  crosses  pinned  to  his  breast,  to  ask  permission  to 
keep  his  name  over  the  inn. 

The  townspeople  had  been  distressed  to  see  Saint 
Magloire  so  broken  and  aged  in  a  few  months;  but 
the  hands  at  the  Aubernon  works  looked  askance  at 
him. 

"Why  did  they  arrest  all  those  hundreds  of  fellows 
and  send  them  for  trial,  when  he  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all  and  they  haven't  done  a  thing  to  him?  It 
shows  he  was  in  with  the  Government  all  the  time." 

They  were  only  repeating  what  they  read  in  the 
papers.  The  Government,  when  it  decided  not  to 
prosecute  the  Evangelist,  knew  quite  well  that  it  was 
destroying  his  popularity.  ImpiTsonment  would  have 
made  a  martyr  of  him;  left  at  large  he  was  nothing 
but  a  traitor. 

At  first  the  saint's  return  caused  M.  Aubernon  a 
certain  amount  of  anxiety;  but  he  soon  realised  that 
the  propagandist  was  no  longer  to  be  feared. 

"This  business  has  brought  my  fellows  to  heel,"  he 
confided  to  M.  Quatrepomme.  "I'll  take  them  back 
by  degrees,  I  shaU  not  hurry  about  it;  the  bad  time 
they've  had  will  do  them  a  lot  of  good.  To  begin 
with.  I  am  going  to  stop  the  Saturday  half-hoUday 
and  put  them  on  piece-work  again." 

For  the  moment  the  only  annoyances  the  manu- 
facturer had  to  put  up  with  came  from  Milot.  Now 
that  he  was  independent,  the  cripple  was  revenging 
himself  for  his  dismissal,  and  backed  up  by  all  the 
factory-hands,  who  were  his  customers,  he  had  de- 
clared war  to  the  knife  on  his  former  employer. 
Whenever  M.  Aubernon  encountered  him,  he  looked 
the  other  way,  to  avoid  seeing  Milot's  expressive  grim- 
aces and  to  ignore  the  insults  growled  at  him. 

Every  evening  at  the  bar  the  former  beadle  told 
stories  of  the  private  life  of  the  Aubemons  :  everything 
he  had  heard  from  the  maids  in  old  days,  everytliing 
he  had  found  out  for  himself,  with  additions  of  his 
own  to  produce  a  better  effect. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  299 

He  would  explain  to  the  vminitiated  how  in  1915 
A.ubernon  had  begun  to  make  money  by  manufacturing 
hangars  for  the  army  which  were  so  unsteady  that  the 
slightest  breeze  was  enough  to  blow  them  over;  and 
how  in  1920,  he  had  declared  himself  bankrupt  to 
avoid  paying  War  Profits  Duty. 

Out  of  the  suicide  of  little  Yvonne  he  built  up  a 
romance  that  might  well  have  roused  jealousy  in  the 
breast  of  Francois  Dubourg,  and  the  story  gained  a 
notable  success  with  the  audience  that  came  to  drink 
its  "aperitif"  at  the  inn. 

"It  was  a  murder  !"  he  ranted.  "As  long  as  I  live 
they  shall  not  forget  the  little  girl  they  killed.  I'll 
find  a  fresh  dodge  every  day  to  poison  their  Hves,  and 
if  they  don't  die  of  remorse  I'll  make  them  burst  with 
rage.    .    .    ." 

It  was  this  that  put  the  idea  of  the  blackboard  into 
his  head.  One  day,  without  warning  anyone,  he  hung 
outside  his  window  a  sort  of  big  school  blackboard  on 
which  he  had  written  in  white  paint : 

"Petit  Louis  has  been  condemned  to  death,  but 
there  are  others  that  have  crimes  on  their  consciences 
who  are  not  even  in  prison.     Wait  ! " 

The  hands  going  down  to  the  workshops  collected 
round  the  board;  by  midday  all  Barlincourt  had  filed 
past  it,  and  the  workman  Mathieu,  half-servile,  half- 
contemptuous,  went  and  reported  the  affair  to  M. 
Aubernon. 

Next  day  the  wording  was  changed  to  another 
variation  on  the  same  theme  :  chips  of  the  old  block 
who  went  about  seducing  virtuous  young  girls  and 
driving  them  to  their  death.  Every  day  Milot,  intoxi- 
cated by  success,  found  something  new  to  say,  dragging 
father,  mother,  and  son  in  the  mud,  but  taking  care 
never  to  mention  names. 

The  manufacturer  was  soon  driven  to  desperation, 
defenceless  as  he  was  in  the  face  of  this  malicious  and 
damaging  campaign.  He  consulted  his  lawyer,  who 
advised  him  against  an  action  in  a  case  that  was  so 


200  SAINT  MAGLOII^ 


wi 


"difilcult  because  no  direct  attack  had  been  made,  and 
suggested  that  simple  official  pressure  would  be  pre- 
ferable, the  Mayor  being  exactly  the  right  man  to 
exercise  it.  Unfortunately,  11.  Quatrepomme  declined 
at  once,  though  he  'warmly  assured  M.  Aubemon  of  his 
good-will.  Now  that  Milot  was  an  inn-keeper  his 
vote  was  an  importaid  one,  and  the  Mayor  had  no 
intention  of  losing  it.  After  that  M.  Aubemon  said 
no  more,  though  he  broodod  over  some  vague  revenge. 
He  pretended  to  ignore  the  whole  business.  But  every 
day  when,  huddled  in  the  comer  of  his  car,  he  passed 
the  caf^,  he  made  out  a  word  or  two  on  the  black- 
board, or  found  an  absurd  figure,  roughly  drawn,  in 
which  he  could  not  fail  to  recognise  himself,  round 
as  a  barrel  and  wearing  a  hat  too  smaJl  for  him, 
Eelow,  to  assist  identification,  the  former  beadle  had 
written:  "Sham-bankrupt  and  the  father  of  a  mur- 
derer." 

"You'll  end  by  landing  us  in  prison,"  said  the 
D^omarchey  girl,  trembling. 

But  Milot  mocked  at  the  danger. 

"Don't  worry,  my  microbe.  He  won't  budge.  I've 
got  him  as  tight  as  a  sausage  in  its  sldn.  ..." 

He  sav/  himself  developing  into  a  leading  power  of 
the  coimtry-side;  and  now  that  he  was  daily  called 
upon  to  arbitrate  between  customers  quarrelling  over 
law-suits,  he  dispensed  justice  in  front  of  his  gramo- 
phone like  Saint  Louis  under  his  oalr. 

In  the  presence  of  the  saint  he  lost  all  his  glibness 
and  listened  to  him  respectfully,  feeling  himself  to  be 
near  a  being  from  another  sphere.  He  could  not 
always  follow  Magloire  in  his  vast  and  disconnected 
arguments,  but  he  understood  a  few  scraps;  and  v/hen, 
still  dizzy,  he  left  the  King's  Domain,  it  seemed  ta 
him  astounding  that  men  could  be  content  with  such 
degradation  when  it  would  have  been  so  easy  to  turn 
this  unjust  v;orld  into  a  garden  of  Eden. 

All  property  seemed  a  crime  to  him — always  ex- 
cepting his  own  cafe— and  in  the  evening,  still  excited. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  301 

he  would  proclaim  the  advent  of  good-will  on  earth 
and  universal  love,  declaring  that  ail  who  did  not 
agree  with  him  were  "fat  heads"  and  "half-baked." 

Adele  also  came  several  times  to  see  the  Evangelist. 
Though  her  employers  had  disowmed  their  relative, 
she  still  regarded  him  with  the  instinctive  veneration 
of  the  first  evening;  and  she  and  Milot  would  sit 
beside  him,  both  of  them  captivated,  finding  again 
the  credulous  hearts  of  their  childhood,  and  listening 
to  the  words  of  joy  that  rose  Hke  ring-doves  against 
a  Spring  sky. 

The  maid  had  no  one  but  the  saint  to  whom  she 
could  talk  of  her  Louis,  and,  in  spite  of  everything, 
she  hoped  that  he  would  still  do  something  to  save 
the  boy's  life. 

One  day  she  showed  him  something  which  the 
prisoner  had  wTitten  her.  Petit  Louis  had  ended  it 
with  "I'll  see  you  soon,"  and  Adele,  kneeling  at  the 
feet  of  the  Evangelist,  broke  down  and  sobbed. 

Petit  Louis,  lying  on  hh  back,  with  wide  open  eyes, 
was  dreaming  of  Guiana.  It  was  fair  as  Paradise. 
On  the  day  when  his  counsel  had  come  to  teU  him 
that  the  Cour  de  Cassation  had  rejected  his  appeal, 
he  had  been  seized  by  something  closely  resembling  a 
fit,  his  head  rolling  about  on  his  shoulders,  his  eyes 
glassy;  and  they  had  had  to  wait  until  he  recovered 
before  they  could  make  him  sign  a  petition  for  mercy. 
After  that  he  had  gone  asleep,  exhaiisted,  but  when 
he  awoke  in  the  early  morning  his  fear  had  vanished 
like  fatigue  after  repose.  Can  a  man  believe  he  is 
going  to  die  when  he  still  feels  his  heart  beating  hard, 
and  the  keen  desire  for  life  still  swells  his  breast  and 
holds  his  muscles  taut.  .  .  .  Can  all  that  be  cut 
off?     No    .    .    .    impossible,  not  to  be  believed. 

He  had  but  one  hope  left — transportation — and  to 
that  he  clung  with  savage  confidence.  Far  off,  at  the 
end  of  a  black  tunnel  he  could  see  a  sunlit  vision.  A 
sky   for   ever   blue.     Half   naked  women,    fast   rivers 

u 


302  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

across  which  escape  might  be  made.  ...  At  times 
he  fell  half  asleep,  and  in  his  dreams  he  saw  himself, 
his  feet  shackled,  his  hands  tied  behind  his  back, 
running  in  Uttle  jumps  towards  that  tropical  garden 
where  men  in  blue  were  beckoning  to  him.  If  he  could 
get  out  of  the  tunnel  he  was  safe;  but  behind  him 
he  could  hear  footsteps  running;  there  were  a  whole 
pack  of  them,  the  warders,  the  judge,  Deibler,  and 
M.  Aubernon.  "Buck  up!"  the  men  in  blue  cried 
to  him  from  the  other  end  of  the  tunnel.  Then,  with 
the  sweat  pouring  down  his  face,  he  jumped  quicker 
and  quicker,  he  tried  to  run  despite  his  bonds;  and 
then,  suddenly  tripping,  he  fell  fiat,  face  forward.    .    .    . 

That  woke  him  abruptly.  He  turned  over  on  his 
bed,  and  propped  up  on  an  elbow  he  looked  at  the 
sky  imprisoned  behind  the  bars.  How  good  it  would 
be  to  be  out  of  doors  !  ...  He  thought  of  Barlin- 
court,  of  sentimental  rambles  in  the  Bois  Noisette. 
He  remembered  his  Paris  pals;  they  must  often  talk 
of  him  with  the  women,  in  the  little  bars;  and  a 
naive  pride  filled  him  at  the  thought.  He  saw  them 
standing  round  the  marble  counter,  their  glasses  filled 
to  the  brim.  His  mouth  watered  with  envy.  No, 
he  had  not  known  how  to  get  the  best  out  of  life.  If 
he  could  only  Hve  it  over  again,  v/hat  a  good  time  he 
would  have !    .    .    . 

He  had  grown  used  to  this  prison  life.  It  seemed 
less  painful  to  him  than  during  the  other  sentences 
which  he  had  served,  because  he  was  not  obliged  to 
work.  He  ate,  he  smoked,  he  often  played  cards 
with  his  two  warders :  he  was  almost  happy.  On 
Mondays  he  greedily  breathed  in  the  free  Sunday  air 
which  seemed  to  come  from  their  tunics,  and  during 
the  rest  of  the  week  he  thought  about  it. 

He  listened  to  the  clocks  striking  the  hours  :  the 
Town  Hall,  the  Cathedral,  the  Prefecture.  ...  In 
the  yard,  when  he  took  his  exercise,  he  often  saw  a 
prisoner  doing  hard  labour,  always  the  same  thing; 
and  with  a  wink  he  would  briefly  bid  him  good-day. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  303 

In  his  thoughts  the  man  had  become  a  friend,  and  it 
annoyed  him  when  he  failed  to  see  him. 

One  evening  as  he  lay  on  his  bed  listening  to  the 
rain  tapping  on  the  slate  roof,  one  of  the  warders 
asked  him  : 

"What  would  you  like  to  have?  What  would 
please  you? " 

Petit  Louis  was  gazing  ahead  with  imseeing  eyes, 
in  a  doze,  thinking  of  nothing  at  all. 

"I  would  like  to  go  on  always  like  this,"  he 
answered,  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

The  other,  a  stout  drunkard  witti  a  grey  moustache, 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  know  that's  not  possible.  You  must  be 
reasonable.    .    .    ." 

Louis  did  not  like  this  warder.  He  was  not  iU- 
natured,  but  after  thirty  years  of  prison  life  he  was 
no  longer  a  man  but  a  stupid  and  unfeeling  piece  of 
mechanism,  like  the  bolts  and  bars  he  handled.  He 
might  have  retired,  but,  being  a  bachelor,  he  was 
afraid  of  the  empty  life  in  which  no  rules  or  regulations 
would  divide  the  hours,  and,  being  a  creature  of  habit, 
he  preferred  the  prison.  He  spent  the  day  grumbling 
against  his  job,  so  saturated  with  alcohol  that  the 
very  first  glass  made  him  drunk,  and  promptly  he 
bullied  the  prisoners,  whom  he  regarded  as  his  op- 
pressors. 

"WT-ien  I  think  that  but  for  these  blackguards  I 
might  be  at  home,"  he  could  be  heard  shouting  in 
the  corridor. 

He  forgot  that  his  "home"  was  a  cell  like  theirs, 
with  the  self-same  bars.  After  supper,  when  they 
were  all  three  playing  "manilla"  with  Louis,  he  would 
grow  maudlin  over  his  own  hard  fate. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  whimpered,  "it  is  us  that  are 
the  prisoners.  .  .  .  When  they've  done  their  time, 
they  go  out  and  they're  free;  but  we  have  to 
stay  here  and  spend  our  whole  life  in  the  beastly 
hole." 


304  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

He  would  turn  to  Louis  and  look  at  him  with 
bleary  eyes,  wagging  his  head. 

"The  only  ones  I'm  sorry  for,  they're  the  ones 
like  you,  that  are  going  to  be  guillotined.  That's 
unpleasant.    .    .    ." 

And  he  would  hand  him  the  pack  of  cards. 

"Come,  it's  your  deal.    .    .    ." 

These  alhisions  made  Petit  Louis's  mouth  suddenl}^ 
go  dry,  and  his  throat  contract.  But  he  felt  the 
pitying  look  of  the  other  warder  upon  him,  and  de- 
liberately, to  show  off,  he  began  to  whistle  as  he 
shuffled  the  cards. 

"Here's  good  luck.    .    .    .     It's  for  you  to  play." 

His  aunt  had  twice  come  to  see  him,  and  on  those 
evenings  they  had  rum  to  diink,  which  the  warder 
had  smuggled  in. 

"The  old  girl  is  more  wide-awake  than  she  looks," 
drawled  the  murderer.  "She  slipped  me  the  money 
on  the  sly  and  the  chief  never  twigged." 

"She  was  crying,  wasn't  she?"  asked  the  new 
warder. 

Louis  shrugged  his  shoulders  : 

"Oh,  well,  women,  you  know.    .    ,    ." 

He  had  even  been  ashamed  when  the  old  servant, 
choking  with  tears,  had  taken  his  hands  between  the 
bars  and  kissed  them.  His  hands  that  had  killed.  .  .  . 
But  that  night,  when  he  was  all  alone,  his  face  trrmed 
towards  the  waU,  he  had  begun  to  tremble. 

"Why  had  she  cried  so  much?  Was  it  because  she 
knew  that  the  end  was  coming?" 

Terrified,  unable  to  sleep,  he  watched  in  the  silent 
night  for  the  heavy  jolting  of  the  cart,  the  murmur 
of  the  crowd  and  the  hammers  of  the  assistants. 

When  the  town  woke  up,  and  the  gleam  of  day  Ugh  t 
In  his  cell  grew  brighter,  when  the  warder  came  in — 
alone — his  tortured  heart  seemed  to  burst,  and,  for  the 
first  time,  doubled  up,  with  his  head  on  the  hard 
plank-bed,  he  had  wept  with  irritation  and  rage. 

In  spite  of  everything,  he  did  not  beUeve  that  he 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  305 

was  going  to  die,  and  he  did  not  even  think  of  his 
appeal  for  mercy  :  his  faith  in  Saint  Magloire  was  too 
strong  for  that.  He  did  not  know  how  the  saint 
would  manage  it;  but  he  would  not  let  him  be  killed, 
of  that  he  felt  certain. 

He  often  spoke  of  him  to  the  warders;  he  talked 
also  of  his  old  employers,  and  of  Mile.  Yvonne. 

"It  is  funny  that  with  connections  like  that  3'ou 
should  have  done  such  a  thing,"  murmured  the 
drunkard. 

Then  coming  back  to  his  obsession,  he  began  com- 
paring the  life  of  the  prisoners  with  that  of  the 
warders. 

"Later  on,"  he  explained  to  Louis,  "they've  pro- 
mised us  central  heating.  That  will  be  better  for 
everybody,  even  for  you  fellows." 

Then  he  quickly  corrected  himself. 

"It  is  true  it  won't  matter  a  tinker's  curse  to 
you.    .    .    .     You  won't  feel  the  heat  or  the  cold.    .    ." 

Petit  Louis  put  up  his  hand  to  his  throat,  with  a 
mechanical  gesture,  and  he  felt  his  lip  twitching.  The 
warder  did  not  say  these  things  out  of  malice  :  it 
seemed  quite  natural  to  him,  and  he  lost  his  temper 
when  his  younger  colleague  told  him  to  be  silent. 

One  evening  when  he  had  drunk  too  much,  he 
began  fumbling  about  among  his  memories  to  de- 
scribe the  last  execution  at  which  he  had  been  present. 
He  was  sitting  under  the  lamp,  leaning  his  elbows 
heavily  on  the  table,  and  the  brim  of  his  cap  threw  a 
shadow  across  his  face. 

"It  was  an  affair  very  much  like  yours,"  he  re- 
lated in  a  toneless  voice.  "Only  it  was  an  old  man 
that  he  had  killed  instead  of  an  old  woman.  .  .  . 
You  can't  think  how  plucky  he  was  !    .    .    ." 

With  his  neck  craned  forward,  with  pinched  lips, 
his  cheeks  more  colourless  than  ever,  Petit  Louis  was 
listening. 

"The  disgusting  part  of  it,"  continued  the  drunk- 
ard,  "is  when  they  throw  the  head  down  with  the 


3o6  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

body  :  They  tip  it,  like  a  hod,  into  the  big  basket, 
and  you  see  the  funny  cut-off  face,  with  the  eyelids 
still  blinking.    .    .    ." 

The  second  warder  interrupted,  in  a  rough  voice  : 

"Here,  shut  up,  you  oughtn't  to  talk  of  things  like 
that  in  front  of  him." 

But  the  old  man  persisted  : 

"Why  not?  ...  It  is  science,  as  you  might 
say,  instructive  information.  You  want  me  to  tell 
you,  don't  you,  my  lad?" 

Louis's  white  lips  murmured  a  hoarse  "Yes,"  and 
he  nodded  his  head. 

"Of  course  it  is  better  for  him  to  know,"  the  old 
man  continued.  "Well,  what  upset  me  most,  was 
when  we  v/ere  taking  him  to  the  cemetery.  I  was 
seated  on  the  bench,  by  the  driver;  then,  behind  us, 
we  could  hear  that  it  was  still  fidgeting;  as  if  it  had 
been  kicking  in  its  basket.    ..." 

At  that  moment,  with  a  reflex  action,  Louis's  leg 
shot  out  and  he  gave  a  great  kick  at  the  table.  He 
was  livid,  the  pupils  oddly  dilated  in  his  staring  eyes. 
He  tried  to  foixe  a  word  out  of  his  parched  throat. 

"All  right,  that's  enough,"  the  other  warder  said 
in  a  tone  of  command  to  his  mate,  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  quite  white.  .  .  .  "You  go  to  bed.  You're 
even  too  drunk  to  play  cards." 

•  •••••• 

Petit  Louis  had  just  gone  to  bed;  the  two  warders 
had  remained  in  his  cell  that  night,  and  with  a  sort 
of  uneasiness  they  watched  his  slumbers.  The  thought 
that  next  day,  in  a  few  hours,  it  would  be  over,  dis- 
turbed them.  They  would  fold  up  the  mattress,  with 
a  turn  of  the  broom  they  would  sweep  up  a  few  loose 
hairs,  and  a  ragged  shirt;  they  would  see  a  white  back 
disappearing  with  short  steps  down  the  corridor.  Ah  ! 
how  short  it  is,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  corridor  that  leads 
to  the  street.    .    .    . 

"I  don't  know  whether  it's  the  change  in  the 
weather,  but  I  am  shivering,"  muttered  the  younger. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  307 

The  old  man  was  reflecting. 

"You  will  notice,"  he  said  to  his  mate,  "that  as 
soon  as  the  knife  falls,  when  it  goes  'chhu,'  half  the 
people  always  put  their  hands  up  to  their  throats; 
they  can't  help  it." 

The  other,  feeling  his  limbs  growing  weak,  wanted 
to  put  some  courage  into  himself. 

"After  all,  he  is  a  rotten  little  scoundrel.  .  .  . 
Five  convictions  at  his  age.  And  that  poor  old  woman 
done  in,  for  no  reason  at  all." 

But  the  drunkard  was  not  hstening  to  him.  He 
was  fingering  a  thick  woollen  jersey  that  Louis  had 
thrown  on  the  table  when  he  undressed. 

"I'd  like  to  put  this  on  one  side  for  myself,  what 
do  you  think? " 

They  both  sat  down  on  their  stools.  They  heard 
eleven  strike  op  all  the  clocks,  and  the  new  warder 
was  afraid  that  the  condemned  man  might  wake. 

"If  he  were  to  suspect  that  it  is  to-night  and  begin 
to  ask  us  questions,"  he  said  in  a  whisper.  "What 
should  we  tell  him  ? " 

The  old  man  was  filling  his  pipe. 

"Bah!  A  little  sooner  or  a  httle  later,  what  does 
it  matter?  I've  known  some  that  wouldn't  even  be 
kept  awake  by  it.  Wliy,  there  was  one,  at 
Melun.    ..." 

"Don't  talk  so  loud." 

They  had  drawn  closer  together.  The  yellow  star 
on  their  caps  made  a  little  point  of  light.  Petit  Louis 
was  snoring.    .    .    . 

They  were  still  chatting  when  they  heard  steps  in 
the  corridor.  The  old  man  put  out  his  pipe  with  a 
jab  of  his  moistened  thumb,  and  stuffed  it  in  his 
pocket.     They  stood  up. 

The  chief  warder  pushed  open  the  door,  and,  stand- 
ing aside,  allowed  someone  to  pass  in. 

Suddenly  they  recognized  Magloire  Dubourg.  The 
saint  had   bared  his   head,  and,  without  speaking,  he 


o 


oS  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 


looked  for  a  long  moment  at  the  condemned  man,  who 
was  still  sleeping. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  Procureur  de  la  Republique, 
who  had  accompanied  him,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"I  thank  you,  sir." 

The  official  with  a  gesture  explained  that  he  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it : 

"Diiectly  you  had  the  permit.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  I 
will  leave  you  with  the  warders.  We  will  come  back 
when  it  is  time  to  wake  him,  at  five  o'clock." 

It  was  the  rattle  of  the  door,  as  it  closed,  which 
awoke  Petit  Louis. 

He  sprang  up,  gazed  stupidly  about  him,  then  a 
child-like  smile  parted  his  lips.  He  must  have  thought 
he  saw  a  vision.    .    .    . 

"Ah  !  you  have  come  to  see  me  !"  he  said,  jumping 
up  from  his  bed,  his  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  "I 
always  said  you  would.  .  .  .  With  you,  I  was  never 
afraid,  I  was  always  at  ease.    ..." 

The  saint  stretched  out  his  arms  to  him. 

"You  were  right,  my  child." 

Petit  Louis  sprang  towards  him,  then  pulled  up 
short.  His  face,  suddenly,  had  changed.  He  was 
livid,  with  two  great  blue  hollows  round  his  eyes,  and 
those  horrified  eyes  were  fixed,  riveted  like  two  nails 
driven  in.  He  asked  no  question;  his  glance  had 
suddenly  understood  everything.  A  gleam  of-  the 
soul  discovering  the  invisible.    .    .    . 

The  saint  took  the  step  that  Petit  Louis  had  been 
about  to  take  and  put  his  arms  about  his  shivering 
body. 

"My  poor  child!   ..." 

The  condemned  man  did  not  weep;  no  tear  could 
have  been  squeezed  forth  from  his  contracted  flesh. 
He  was  shaking,  in  the  grip  of  an  icy  chill,  his  teeth 
chattered,  his  legs  gave  way  beneath  him;  and  if  the 
saint  had  not  held  him  up,  he  would  have  fallen  to 
the  ground. 

"He  takes  it  badly,"  whispered  the  old  warder. 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  309 

The  other  said  nothing  :  he  was  seeking  for  a  httle 
saliva  in  his  choking  throat. 

Petit  Louis  at  last  withdrew  from  the  embrace  of 
the  saint  and  dropped  on  his  bed.  He  was  hiccough- 
ing, and  they  had  to  give  him  something  to  drink. 
Presently  he  seemed  to  grow  calmer,  and  his  first  words 
were  : 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed.    ..." 

Magloire  Dubourg  drew  near  to  him  : 

"Has  life  been  so  good  to  you  that  you  regret  it  so 
much  ? "  he  asked,  leaning  over  Louis. 

Louis  recalled  his  childhood,  his  home  under  the 
Assistance  Pubhque,  the  farm,  the  blows,  Paris,  the 
rowdy  Paris  of  the  quarters  on  the  hiUs,  poverty, 
prison.    .    .    . 

"Well,  yes,  I  do  regret,"  he  growled  savagely.  "I 
had  the  right  to  live  hke  other  people,  and  it  was  good 
in  spite  of  everything." 

The  saint  sat  down  at  his  side. 

"But  are  you  sure  you  won't  live  any  more?"  he 
asked  gently,  in  the  same  voice  that  in  the  old  days, 
under  the  sunshine,  he  had  used  among  his  humming 
bees. 

The  condemned  man  stared  at  him,  not  understand- 
ing. 

The  old  man  drew  him  within  the  shelter  of  his 
arms. 

"Listen  to  me,  don't  tremble,"  he  said  in  a  passionate 
voice.  "On  the  contrary,  be  glad.  Only  one  more 
night  and  you  will  escape.  Only  one  more  night  and 
you  will  cease  to  be  the  hunted  beast  you  have  been 
ever  since  yom"  chUdhood;  you  will  no  longer  bear 
the  burden  of  your  crime,  you  will  be  free  of  all 
the  vices  that  you  drag  about  with  you;  your  destiny 
will  no  longer  be  printed  on  your  forehead  for  all  to 
read,  and  you  will  fly  away,  free  at  last,  to  live  again, 
in  a  better  body,  a  life  that  you  will  be  able  to  make 
happy.  It  is  a  new  dawn  that  will  rise  for  you  in  the 
narrow   window   of   the   scaffold.    ...    Be   glad   and 


310  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

give  thanks  to  God,  my  child;  only  one  more 
night.    ..." 

The  tense  face  of  the  murderer  slowly  relaxed;  he 
did  not  yet  understand,  but  his  heart  was  listening. 
With  his  open  mouth  and  his  attentive  air,  he  looked 
as  though  he  were  watching  a  breach  opening  in  the 
walls  of  his  prison. 

"But  all  the  same,"  he  repeated,  "it's  no  good  for 
them  to  kill  me.    ..." 

"They  won't  kill  you,  they  will  set  you  free.  .  .  . 
One  human  gesture  cannot  destroy  a  creature  of 
God.    ..." 

A  hundred  memories  rose  in  the  muddled  brain  of 
the  condemned  man.  That  phrase  ...  he  had 
heard  it  already  in  Barlincourt.  .  .  .  Yes,  Saint 
Magloire  used  to  say  that  you  didn't  die,  that  you 
only  flew  from  one  life  to  another,  that  men  are  lilie 
plants  that  die  and  come  to  Ufe  again  eternally,  since 
God  tossed  the  first  grain  into  the  wind.    .    .    . 

His  eyes  fastened  on  the  saint,  helplessly.  Round 
his  twisted  mouth  a  saffron-yellow  spot  was  spreading. 

"Then,"  he  gasped.  "You  believe  that?  .  .  . 
It's  true?"    .    .    . 

Saint  Magloire  seemed  to  absorb  the  condemned 
man  into  his  flaming  glance  : 

"I  promise  it  to  you.  ...  On  my  eternal  salva- 
tion, I  swear  it  to  you.    ..." 

The  bloodless  head  of  the  prisoner  began  once  more 
that  tragic  swaying  back  and  forth  that  had  overcome 
him  when  he  learned  of  the  rejection  of  his  appeal. 

"Say  it  again,"  he  murmured  in  a  stifled  voice. 
.    .    .    "Promise  me.    .    .    .   Again.    ..." 

The  Apostle  had  taken  his  two  hands  in  his  own, 
and  in  his  moving  voice  he  prophesied  to  the  dying 
man  the  everlasting  course  of  Life,  the  comforting 
return. 

"Don't  believe  them,  those  who  have  threatened 
you  with  Hell.  God  is  not  an  executioner.  .  .  . 
Your  crime  :  thousands  of  men  shared  in  it  with  you  : 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  311 

all  those  who  caused  you  to  be  bom  wretched  and  to 
grow  up  among  scoundrels.  .  .  .  Don't  believe  those 
who  have  told  you  that  we  only  liVe  once  and  that 
God  judges  us  by  this  single  test.  .  .  .  This  uncertain 
passage  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  Destiny  is  more 
responsible  for  it  than  we  are  :  Destiny  who  brought 
us  into  the  world  Christian  or  infidel,  rich  or  poor, 
generous  or  envious.  .  .  .  Hope,  my  boy;  you  will 
live  again.  .  .  .  No  weapon  can  reach,  no  steel  can 
sever  the  breath  of  divinity  you  bear  within  you.  .  .  . 
The  dead  are  not  dead.    ..." 

"Again  .  .  .  again  .  .  ."  implored  Louis,  like 
a  frightened  child  begging  to  be  rocked. 

The  hands  of  the  old  man  resting  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  prisoner  began  to  tremble. 

"Close  your  eyes,  merciful  Death  is  approaching. 
You  are  going  to  join  the  souls  that  float  around  us, 
that  moan  in  the  wind,  rustle  in  the  leaves  and  roam, 
on  certain  evenings,  through  silent  houses  where  people 
dream.  .  .  .  Then,  one  after  the  other,  the  ties  that 
hold  your  soaring  spirit  to  earth  will  break.  .  .  . 
Only  two  memories  left.  .  .  .  Now  only  one,  a 
thread  of  gossamer  swinging  in  the  wind.  .  .  .  Then 
nothing  more,  forgetfulness,  the  long  rest  in  heavenly 
spheres.  .  .  .  And  then  suddenly,  the  darkness  is 
rent  asunder  and  there  comes  the  resurrection,  the 
eternal  miracle.    ..." 

Suddenly,  Louis  gave  a  convulsive  start.  A  sinister 
sound,  in  the  street.  A  cart  being  unloaded.  In  a 
flash,  he  understood.  His  head  sank  down  between 
his  shoulders,  and  he  looked  at  the  saint  with  great 
terrified  eyes,  his  mouth  twisted  in  a  grimace  that 
puckered  his  cheeks.  He  tried  to  rise,  but  his  strength 
forsook  him,  and  he  huddled  his  face  against  Magloire 
Dubourg,  making  an  absurd  noise  with  his  sputtering 
lips.  Leaning  lightly  on  his  shoulder,  the  saint  pressed 
him  down  to  his  knees  and  then  knelt  down  beside 
him. 

"Speak  to  God,"  said  he. 


312  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

A  mysterious  distress  took  hold  of  the  warders,  as 
though  they  were  waiting  for  something.  They 
watched,  but  with  a  mist  before  their  eyes,  with  strain- 
ing hearts,  shivering  under  a  tingling  sensation  that 
froze  them  to  the  marrow.  They  no  longer  heard  the 
noises  outside. 

Magloire  Dubourg  was  leaning  back,  his  face  up- 
raised to  heaven  and  his  arms  outstretched.  It  was 
hardly  possible  to  see  anything  in  the  cell.  Then  it 
seemed  to  them  that  a  faint  light  appeared  round  the 
white  head,  that  all  was  dying  away  in  the  shadows, 
and  that  nothing  remained  but  that  radiant  counten- 
ance, in  a  golden  halo. 

Then,  at  the  same  time,  drawn  as  by  a  command, 
they  looked  at  his  hands.  They  started,  ashen-faced, 
their  knees  shaking.  .  .  .  There,  in  the  middle  of 
his  bare  palms  they  saw  two  red  spots  appearing,  two 
bleeding   holes,    two   marks   of   nails.     The    Stigmata. 

Overwhelmed,  they  scarcely  breathed;  they  dared 
not  look  at  each  other. 

With  clammy  hands  they  raised  their  caps,  and, 
submissively,  bowed  their  heads.  The  shuddering 
that  had  seized  them  filled  their  empty  minds  with 
confusion  :  not  a  thought  remained  .  .  .  nothing. 
Yet,  miraculously,  the  prayers  of  their  childhood  came 
back  to  them,  intact,  and  their  words  were  added  to 
those  of  the  man  whose  agony  was  just  beginning. 

"...  I  have  deeply  sinned  by  thought,  by  word, 
and  by  deed;  it  is  my  fault,  it  is  my  fault,  it  is  my 
most  grievous  fault  !    .    .    . " 

Outside  the  prison  the  assistants  could  be  heard 
setting  up  the  guillotine. 

It  is  dark  red,  the  colour  of  wine-lees.  The  blade, 
high  up,  can  hardly  be  seen,  like  a  fang  of  steel  planted 
in  a  heavy  box.  One  of  the  assistants,  holding  out  his 
lantern  at  arm's  length,  lights  up  the  scaffold,  piece 
by  piece.  The  light  rises,  descends,  glides  over  the 
wall,  is  lost  in  the  night.    .    .    . 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  313 

Near  by,  at  the  cross-roads,  the  hum  of  the  swarm- 
ing crowd  can  be  heard.  Under  the  dark  vault  of  the 
prison,  the  glow  of  cigarettes  flares  up  and  fades  away; 
there  are  already  some  people  about.  No  one  dares 
to  speak  aloud;   they  whisper. 

The  assistants,  unconcerned,  are  fixing  a  plank  with 
sweeping  blows  of  a  mallet.  One  of  them  is  whistUng : 
a  little  man  with  the  torso  of  a  bruiser.  Everyone 
thinks  : 

"They  are  making  too  much  noise,  he  will 
hear.   ..." 

But  no  one  dares  to  say  so,  everyone  is  ashamed. 
After  all,  he  has  committed  a  murder.    .   .   . 

Shadows  come  and  go,  furtively,  then  stop  and 
collect  together;  spectators  come  up,  to  see  better; 
they  appraise  it  with  their  eyes.  It  is  as  though  it 
drew  them.  They  had  imagined  it  massive,  very  wide, 
holding  the  sky  between  its  arms;  but  no,  on  the  con- 
trary, it  is  narrow,  paltry. 

An  assistant  scatters  sawdust,  like  a  cafe  waiter,  in 
the  morning,  before  he  begins  to  sweep.     All  is  ready. 

The  executioner  has  just  arrived.  He  wears  a 
bowler  hat  and  a  long  grey  overcoat,  creased  by  travel- 
ling. The  face  of  an  obsequious  petty  official,  with 
furtive  eyes  and  a  small  beard.  He  assmnes  a  rueful 
and  good-natured  air. 

"We  are  not  out  of  the  wood  yet,"  he  sighs. 
"Morals  have  become  terribly  lax  since  the  War. 
They  will  need  a  few  more  lessons  like  this.    .    .    ." 

It  seems  he  is  paid  four  hundred  francs  a 
head.    .    .   . 

Dawn  is  already  approaching;  the  stars  are  melting 
away.  One  can  see  groups  of  people  standing  about, 
and  the  file  of  soldiers.  Some  policemen  begin  to 
make  the  crowd  move  on;  the  idlers  manoeuvre  for  a 
good  view,  withdraw,  come  back  again.  They  have 
passed  the  night  waiting  to  see  a  man  beheaded,  a 
living  man.  .  .  .  Most  of  them,  however,  feel  dis- 
tressed;  anguish  has  made  them  hollow-eyed. 


314  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

The  time  must  be  drawing  near.  Here  are  the 
Prefect,  the  Procureur,  some  people  from  Paris.    .    .    . 

"No,  sir,  you  cannot  stay,  it  is  definitely  forbidden, 
you  know  that  quite  well.    ..." 

It  is  a  newspaper  photographer  whom  the  commis- 
sary is  driving  away.  Among  the  journalists  old 
BeUieres  is  holding  forth.  It  is  his  ninety-second 
execution;  he  is  giving  reminiscences :  Caserio,  the 
Pollet  gang,  at  Bethune,  and  his  famous  adventure  in 
Corsica,  where  he  himself  was  obliged  to  take  command 
of  the  police,  the  Sub  Prefect  being  inexperienced,  and 
the  Procureur  having  fainted.  People  are  amused, 
they  force  themselves  to  laugh. 

Ah  !  the  chaplain.  .  .  .  Everyone  is  silent.  Be- 
hind the  priest  they  have  shut  the  door  again.  Now 
it  will  only  open  for  the  other. 

A  report  is  being  spread  that  Saint  Magloire  has 
been  allowed  to  spend  the  last  night  with  the  murderer, 
but  no  one  believes  it.  They  ask  questions,  they 
dispute  about  it. 

Five  o'clock  strikes.  Above  the  houses  the  sky 
takes  on  softer  tints.  At  this  moment,  no  one  knows 
where,  on  a  branch  or  on  the  edge  of  a  roof,  a  bird 
begins  to  sing.  First  a  little  chirp  at  waking.  Then 
he  twitters  as  he  probably  shakes  himself,  the  little 
dishevelled  feather-ball;  then  when  he  has  settled 
down,  full-throated,  he  opens  with  a  prelude  of  piercing 
trills,  and  now  he  is  singing  with  all  his  heart,  disturb- 
ing the  other  nests  that  shiver  into  wakefulness. 

All  eyes  are  on  the  look-out  for  him.  Where  is  he? 
He  should  be  driven  away,  with  stones.  It  hurts  to 
listen  to  these  love-lorn  roulades  of  his,  in  the  bashful 
half-light.  His  delirious  joy  oppresses  the  heart. 
.  .  .  Ah  !  at  last,  he  is  silent.  .  .  .  Has  he 
guessed  perchance?     The  door  opens.    .    .    . 

In  the  corridor  the  saint  had  taken  the  boy  in  his 
arms  to  help  him  to  walk.  At  times  he  had  almost 
to  lift  him  up. 

Louis  let  himself  go.     His  face  v/as  calm,  his  eyes 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  315 

very  gentle.  With  bent  head  he  asked,  below  his 
breath  : 

"It's  true,  eh?     You  are  quite  sure?" 

And  the  saint  answered  ardently  : 

"Before  God,  I  swear  it  to  you.  It  is  for  you  that 
dawn  is  breaking.  The  night  of  your  poor  hfe  is  draw- 
ing to  its  close.  All  their  guards  can  do  nothing;  it 
is  finished,  you  are  escaping.    ..." 

The  narrow  corridor  pressed  them  in  between  its 
two  walls.  Behind  their  doors  the  prisoners,  with 
beating  hearts,  must  be  listening  to  the  noise  of  the 
passing  footsteps  :  the  atmosphere  of  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing, when  the  body  is  being  carried  down.  At  the 
end  of  the  corridor  a  shivering  dawn  is  waiting. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps  Magloire  made  the  lad  pass 
in  front  of  him;  the  chaplain  went  before  them,  raising 
his  crucifix,  and  Louis  sought  it  with  his  lips.  Shut 
in  like  a  well,  the  little  garden  was  the  colour  of  ashes, 
but  along  the  pathway  a  lantern  spread  a  quivering 
carpet  of  light.  Under  the  vault  nothing  could  be 
seen  :  a  dark  cave,  where  shadows  hid  themselves. 

The  heavy  bar  of  the  gate  dropped  with  a  noise  of 
iron;  the  folding-doors  swung  slowly  back  and  the 
light  of  early  morning  appeared,  a  slender  ray  at  first. 
Then  the  livid  band  widened  and  a  striking  picture 
showed  itself,  framed  in  the  porch  :  men  shivering 
with  upturned  collars,  bareheaded.  Not  a  sound. 
In  the  distance,  on  the  cobblestones,  the  impatient 
stamp  of  a  horse's  hoof.  A  great  horrified  waiting, 
under  the  grey  sky. 

Petit  Louis,  on  the  verge  of  collapse,  had  stopped 
short,  his  legs  giving  way. 

He  weighed  heavily  on  the  arms  of  Magloire  Du- 
bourg. 

"  It's  true,  eh  ?     You  are  sure  ? " 

The  saint  embraced  him  and  pushed  him  before 
him. 

"God  has  already  forgiven  you.  You  will  live  agaui. 
Be  good  and  be  happy." 


3i6  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

Turning  to  the  left,  the  condemned  man  suddenly 
saw  the  machine.  No  broad  space  about  it.  A  look 
of  abject  intimacy,  some  people  crowded  round  near 
the  sprinkled  sawdust.  And  against  the  framework, 
a  man  standing  alone,  his  arm  upraised. 

Suddenly,  in  the  profound  silence,  a  terrifying  cry 
arose  : 

"Louis!  my  man!" 

Down  there,  lost  in  the  crowd,  Julie  had  called, 
warned  by  the  sudden  silence.  A  shudder  of  horror 
ran  down  every  spine.  The  condemned  man  had 
heard,  they  saw  his  face  change. 

Then,  in  fear  of  weakening,  unwilling  to  awake  from 
the  peace  into  which  the  promises  of  the  saint  had 
plunged  him,  he  snatched  himself  from  his  arms,  and 
wild-eyed,  with  clenched  teeth,  ran  stumbling  up  the 
scaffold,  in  little  leaps,  with  shackled  feet.  He  wanted 
to  be  done  with  it,  quickly,  without  thinking,  without 
waiting.  He  sprang  forward.  The  hardened  assistant 
who  was  getting  ready  to  push  him  along  with  his  two 
massive  fists  had  not  even  time  to  touch  him; 
Louis  had  thrown  himself  alone  on  the  block,  his  neck 
outstretched. 

A  dark  mass  descending.  All  eyes  are  closed.  It 
is  over. 

To  the  disgraceful  sound  of  the  blade,  a  woman's 
shriek  replied,  very  far  away,  behind  the  police. 
Blood.  .  .  .  They  throw  the  head,  stiU  Uving,  into 
the  basket.  The  assistants  hurry.  The  horse  at  the 
cart  snorts  and  stiffens  his  legs.  A  great  sponge  is 
passed  over  the  knife.  How  ugly  they  are,  all  of  them, 
how  horribly  ugly  in  their  human  fashion.    .   ,   . 

After  the  execution,  Magloire  Dubourg  fell  into 
general  contempt.  For  the  Barlincourt  workmen,  the 
permit  (illegal,  after  all)  which  had  been  granted  to 
the  saint,  was  a  proof  of  his  connection  with  the 
Government;  as  for  the  tradespeople,  this  interest  in 
an  assassin  made  them  furious. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  317 

"He  didn't  take  so  much  trouble  for  the  victim," 
squeaked  Begin,  the  baker. 

Fran9ois  Dubourg  himself  had  suffered  from  the 
behaviour  of  his  brother  :  when  the  first  episode  of 
"Monsieur  de  Cambrelus"  had  been  shown  in  the 
cinemas,  and  the  portrait  of  the  author  thrown  on 
the  screen,  there  had  been  a  diabolical  hullabaloo, 
and  the  novehst,  who  was  in  the  theatre  with  his  mis- 
tress, had  paled  under  the  volley  of  hisses.  As  for 
Mme.  Dubourg,  she  received  threatening  letters  by 
every  post,  and  directly  she  set  foot  out  of  doors  she 
felt  that  the  police  were  watching  her. 

In  political  circles,  the  President  of  the  Council,  by 
giving  the  compromising  permit  to  Magloire,  was  re- 
garded as  having  acted  with  extreme  skill.  People 
recalled  the  precedent  of  Marcelin  Albert,  the  vine- 
yard agitator,  who  had  lost  standing  for  having  spent 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  office  of  Georges  Clemen- 
ceau. 

The  newspapers  had  published  further  notes  by  Dr. 
Blum  on  the  case  of  Julien  Fortunat,  called  "The 
Trembler,"  who  had  relapsed  into  his  old  epileptic 
fits,  and  whose  St.  Vitus'  Dance  had  been,  if  anything, 
aggravated,  after  several  months'  diminution,  "which 
was  to  be  attributed  solely  to  a  great  nervous  shock 
such  as  m.ight  have  been  caused  by  an  accident  or 
any  other  violent  emotion." 

The  beggar  had  re-established  himself  on  the  steps 
of  the  church,  pallid  and  trembling  as  before  the 
miracle,  but  he  was  no  longer  indifferent  and  submis- 
sive under  his  affliction,  as  he  had  formerly  been.  He 
had  knowTi  some  months  of  normal  existence,  had  lived 
like  other  men,  had  tasted  happiness — rumour  even 
credited  him  with  a  mistress,  a  farm-girl — and  now  he 
suffered  torture;  in  every  lad  that  passed  by  he  saw 
the  man  he  had  been  himself,  and,  racked  by  regrets, 
devoured  by  envy,  he  wept  with  rage  as  he  crouched 
under  his  porch. 

As  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  saint  he  began  to 

X 


3i8  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

growl,  and  Milot  had  been  obliged  to  turn  him  out  of 
the  cafe.  Besides,  he  was  offensive  to  the  customers, 
with  his  crooked  mouth  and  his  twitching  limbs. 

"And  then,  if  you  beg  your  living,"  Milot  argued, 
reasonably  enough,  "it  is  a  pretty  thing  to  go  and 
spend  all  your  takings  in  the  public  house." 

Although  the  beadle  still  continued  his  determined 
campaign  by  writing  the  benefactions  of  the  saint  on 
the  blackboard,  which  he  followed  up  on  the  next  day 
with  insults  intended  for  M.  Aubernon,  everyone  in 
Barlincourt  had  thrown  over  the  Evangelist.  The 
strike  which  he  had  brought  about  unintentionally 
had  overwhelmed  the  workmen  like  a  catastrophe; 
it  is  only  for  the  rich  that  wounds  to  the  purse  are  not 
fatal.  Poverty  had  brought  degradation  to  everyone. 
Girls  who  were  tired  of  their  miserable  existence  had 
gone  off  to  Paris  to  a  life  of  debauchery.  Housewives 
were  in  hospital,  children  were  boarded  out  in  schools 
and  work-rooms.  The  strikers,  who  had  not  all  been 
taken  on  again,  were  like  vicious  dogs  ready  to  tear 
each  other  to  pieces,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  biting. 

The  young  men,  farmers'  sons,  now  amused  them- 
selves by  insulting  the  saint  when  they  met  him. 
They  dared  each  other  to  approach  close  to  him,  as  on 
Midsummer  Eve  they  dared  each  other  to  spring  across 
the  bonfire.  M.  Quatrepomme  contemplated  with  a 
feeling  of  relief  the  return  of  peace  to  his  parish,  but 
he  was  no  longer  very  confident  as  to  the  result  of  the 
coming  elections.  Not  only  had  he  all  the  socialists 
against  him  now,  but  he  was  also  the  enemy  of  the 
Clericals,  who  reproached  him  with  having  given 
refuge  to  the  schismatics;  on  account  of  Aubernon  he 
had  fallen  foul  of  all  the  manufacturers  of  the  district, 
and  on  account  of  Milot  all  the  old  soldiers  opposed  him. 

"Besides,  it  is  quite  simple,"  sighed  the  Mayor  un- 
happily. "Never  have  people  hated  each  other  so 
bitterly  as  since  the  time  when  their  saint  came  to 
preach  good- will  here.    .    .    . " 

Maglnire  Dubourg,  feeling  this  hostility,  and  warned 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  319 

by  Milot,  who  hid  nothing  from  him,  showed  himself 
as  Uttle  as  possible. 

He  no  longer  received  visitors.  However,  on  certain 
days  at  nightfall,  an  ecclesiastic  might  be  seen  alight- 
ing from  a  carriage  in  front  of  the  villa  :  it  was  the 
Vicar-General,  who  came  to  talk  with  the  saint.  The 
Church  was  now  congratulating  itself  on  not  having 
acted  hastily.  Everything  would  come  right,  in  time. 
The  Vicar-General  told  the  old  man  again  and  again 
that  he  ought  to  acknowledge  the  mistakes  which 
had  arisen  out  of  his  own  altruism,  to  avoid  contro- 
versy and  go  back  quietly  to  Africa,  where  his 
presence  could  do  so  much  good. 

Father  Labry  also  came  to  see  him. 

The  Evangelist,  to  avoid  any  unpleasant  incidents, 
now  only  attended  Low  Mass,  kneeling  quite  at  the 
back  of  the  nave,  at  the  paupers'  bench. 

One  Sunday,  however,  he  came  to  High  Mass.  All 
the  pious  church-goers,  turning  round  in  their  seats, 
stared  malevolently  at  him,  and  when  young  Pele 
entered,  with  his  aunt  at  his  side,  both  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, a  murm.ur  arose.  The  saint,  kneeling  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  remained  unconscious  of  it. 

Abbe  Choisy,  who  had  been  reproached  with 
cowardice  by  his  flock,  rehabilitated  himself  that  day 
in  the  eyes  of  his  parishioners.  He  had  never  been  so 
eloquent.  With  flushed  cheeks,  stammering  in  his 
eagerness,  and  waving  the  great  white  wings  of  his 
surplice,  he  launched  his  condemnation. 

"Beware  of  false  prophets  who  come  to  you  in 
sheep's  clothing,  but  inwardly  are  ravening  wolves," 
he  cried,  brandishing  his  book. 

Young  Pel^  began  to  bellow,  some  of  the  women, 
on  the  verge  of  tears,  blew  their  noses;  and,  had  they 
been  anywhere  else  except  in  church,  the  handful  of 
peasants  in  the  labourers'  seats  would  certainly  have 
seized  the  Evangelist  by  the  collar  and  thrown  him  out. 

As  they  left  the  church  after  the  ofhce,  the  people 
crowding   r^imd    the   h-^h'-watf^r   stoup  stared   at    the 


320  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

tall  old  man.  Coming  forward  with  his  heavy  step, 
he  dipped  his  fingers  into  the  water  and  offered  them, 
moistened,  to  a  woman  who  was  behind  him.  She 
recoiled  quickly,  and  with  an  evil  look  hid  her  hands 
under  her  cape. 

"  Bah  !  Bah  !  "  cried  a  raucous  voice  in  front  of  them. 

It  was  the  Trembler,  who  was  dragging  himself  along, 
grimacing ;  and  he  had  dropped  his  wooden  bowl  to 
shake  a  clenched  fist. 

•  •••••• 

One  evening  before  dinner — the  evicted  workman 
was  playing  "Nina  la  Belle"  on  his  accordion;  prim- 
roses jewelled  the  short  grass  and  on  the  branches  the 
buds  of  March  were  opening — the  gate  clanged  and 
Gerard  appeared  on  the  path. 

His  heart  ached  as  he  stood  before  the  house.  The 
shutters  remained  closed,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral; 
he  dared  not  look  towards  the  outbuildings.  In  the 
old  days,  all  the  joy  of  the  viUa  seemed  to  run  to  wel- 
come him  as  he  opened  the  gate  :  Yvonne's  laugh,  the 
barking  of  the  dogs,  the  scent  of  the  baskets  of  flowers. 
And  always  the  luscious  rattle  of  pots  and  pans  that 
rose  from  the  basement. 

There,  on  the  terrace,  Madame  Dubourg  would  be 
lying  on  her  couch,  too  lazy  to  rise;  M.  Dubourg  would 
appear  at  his  window,  in  his  careless  attire,  and  call 
out  a  greeting.  Gerard  thought  also  of  M.  Van.den 
Kris,  and  his  glance  hardened  under  his  drawn  brows. 

All  his  happy  youth  lay  encompassed  in  this  great 
garden.  The  shrubs  had  grown  up  with  him,  every 
clump  of  bushes  held  a  memory,  and  as  he  rounded 
the  bend  in  the  little  path  under  the  pines  he  auto- 
matically put  out  his  hand,  knowing  that  a  branch 
which  always  caught  him  in  the  face  stretched  out 
there. 

Soon  the  garden  would  flower  again;  the  wallflowers 
would  fill  the  baskets  with  a  thousand  golden  butter- 
flies; the  lilacs  would  stretch  forth  their  perfumed 
sprays,  and  yet  the  shutters  would  not  swing  open  in 


SAINT   MAGLOIRE  321 

the  morning  svin,   when   fitienne  placidly  raked   the 
paths. 

The  waterless  well,  the  low  wall  of  the  kitchen 
garden,  the  three  steps,  the  big  lawn.  .  .  .  He  saw  it 
all  again,  as  it  had  been  on  the  day  of  the  miracles  : 
the  swarming  multitude,  the  noise,  the  small  boys 
perched  in  the  trees,  the  sick  people  on  their  stretchers. 
The  Dubourgs,  in  the  drawing  room,  had  looked  at 
those  thousands  of  panting  beings,  their  hearts  well- 
nigh  bursting  with  pride. 

What  remained  of  all  that,  now  that  the  fever  had 
subsided?    .   .    . 

The  young  man  m.astered  his  emotion  and  entered 
the  villa.  Saint  Magloire  was  seated  with  a  book  on 
his  knees. 

"How  do  you  do,  uncle?" 

The  old  man  looked  at  him,  blinking  his  eyes. 

"Why,  it's  you,  Gerard.     Good-day,  my  boy." 

This  unexpected  visit  took  him  by  surprise.  He 
feared  some  new  disaster. 

"It  is  nothing  serious  that  brings  you?  Are  your 
parents  well?" 

Gerard  could  not  keep  back  his  distress  :  his  voice 
broke  in  a  sob. 

"I  think  so,"  he  stammered. 

Then  suddenly  he  recovered  his  self-control : 

"  I  do  not  see  much  of  them.     Father,  as  you  know, 
hardly  ever  comes  home  now,  and  mother  was  so  un 
happy   that   for  some   time   ..."     His  voice   began 
to  tremble  once  more.     "She  has  also  been  living  her 
own  life,"  he  said  at  last,  mumbling  the  words. 

He  pulled  himself  up  stiffly,  very  pale,  and,  feeling 
two  big  tears  rising,  he  blinked  his  e\elids  quickly  and 
turned  his  head  away.  All  his  stifled  sorrow  rose  in 
his  throat,  but  he  resisted  proudly.  In  order  to  do 
what  he  intended  doing,  he  must  play  the  man.  But 
the  strain  was  too  much  for  him.  A  fit  of  trembling 
shook  him,  his  full  heart  burst  into  sobs,  and,  over- 
come, he  dropped  weeping  into  an  arm-chair. 


322  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"Oh,  we  were  so  happy,  before  you  came,"  he 
moaned,  choking  with  tears.  "You  don't  know  how 
happy  we  were.  Now  it  is  all  over,  never  again.  .  . 
Why,  I  ought  to  have  known  you  would  bring  mis- 
fortune, the  very  day  you  arrived.  .  .  .  Father 
forbade  Yvonne  to  laugh  in  front  of  you;  one  had  no 
right  to  enjoy  oneself  in  the  presence  of  a  saint.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  can  be  satisfied,  she  never  laughed  again, 
my  poor  little  sister;  she  never  will  laugh 
again.    ..." 

The  saint,  full  of  pity,  came  close  to  the  young  man, 
and  sought  to  take  his  head  between  his  kindly  hands; 
but  Gerard,  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  pulled  himself 
away  and  rose,  his  cheeks  still  wet  with  tears. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  he  said  roughly.  "I  am  not 
asking  you  to  comfort  me.  If  you  hadn't  done  us  so 
much  harm,  I  should  not  be  weeping  now.  I  had 
never  wept  before  I  knew  you;  this  was  a  house  of 
joy.  And  you  had  to  come  and  destroy  everything. 
...  It's  your  fault  that  the  Aubernons  wouldn't  let 
their  son  associate  with  Yvonne  any  more;  it's  your 
fault  that  my  sister  killed  herself;  it's  your  fault  that 
father  has  begun  to  behave  badly;  it's  your  fault 
that  mother  has  gone;  it's  your  fault  that  Mother 
Pele  is  dead;  that  the  whole  countryside  has  gone 
through  months  of  misery,  that  some  of  the  workmen 
are  still  in  prison,  it  has  all  come  about  through  you; 
and  it's  your  fault,  too,  if  at  this  moment  I  am  going 
to  take  vengeance  on  the  Aubernons,  that  I  am  going 
to  run  the  risk  of  deportation." 

Magloire  sprang  up  and  seized  Gerard  by  the 
shoulders. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  anxiously. 
"You  are  not  going  to  commit  some  act  of  madness?" 

The  young  man  freed  himself  and  looked  at  his 
uncle  with  a  resolute  air. 

"  Oh  !  no,  no  act  of  madness,  far  from  that.  .  .  . 
And  it  will  be  a  fine  thing,  too,  for  the  nephew  of  a 
saint.   .   .   .   But    I'm    no   saint,    you   understand.      I 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  323 

want  to  avenge  us  all.  Have  you  done  anything,  you 
who  are  so  just,  to  get  the  Aubernons  punished?  No. 
You  forgive  the  blackguards.  Well,  I  don't  forgive. 
.  .  .  And,  since  all  my  life  is  in  ruin,  I  will  at  least 
have  vengeance  before   ..." 

The  saint  wanted  to  hold  him  back,  but  Gerard 
evaded  him  and  opened  the  door : 

"Good-bye,  uncle,"  he  called  out  from  the  foot  of 
the  steps.     "There  is  no  longer  a  Dubourg  family." 

He  was  already  running  down  the  path.  The  sky, 
behind  the  trees,  was  blood  red.  A  keen  wind  was 
blowing. 

"Gerard!"  the  old  man  called  twice. 

The  boy  did  not  even  turn  round.  The  clang  of  the 
gate  could  be  heard.   ...   He  was  gone. 

When  £tienne  came  to  bring  dinner  he  saw  the 
saint  kneeling  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  his  head  on  an 
arm-chair.     It  was  quite  dark. 

The  gardener  Ughted  the  lamp.  He  moved  the 
plates  about,  he  coughed.  Still  the  saint  did  not 
move.  Usually  Etienne  withdrew  without  saying 
anything,  knowing  that  it  was  impossible  to  rouse  the 
saint  from  his  meditations;  but  for  some  days  Saint 
Magloire  had  been  so  depressed,  so  feeble,  that  he  was 
sorry  for  him. 

"You  really  ought  to  eat  your  soup  while  it  is  hot," 
he  said.  "  It's  a  pity  Mr.  Gerard  didn't  stay  to  dinner 
with  you;    that  would  have  given  you  an  appetite." 

The  Evangelist  rose. 

"Did  vou  see  him?  "  he  asked.    "Did  he  speak  to  you?" 

Old  Etienne  nodded  his  head. 

"Why,  yes.  ...  He  looked  quite  upset.  .  .  . 
He  shook  hands  hard  with  me  and  he  said  :  '  To-night 
my  little  sister  will  be  pleased  ! '  I  rather  wondered 
what  he  meant.    ..." 

He  was  standing  near  the  glass  door,  lookmg  out 
with  an  air  of  abstraction,  when  he  suddenly  opened 
his  eyes  wide. 


324  SAINT  MAGLOIRE 

"What's  happening?"  he  wondered. 

Then  he  cried  aloud  : 

"Why,  there's  a  fire!" 

He  was  akeady  out  on  the  terrace,  with  the  saint 
at  his  heels.  They  gazed  with  anxious  hearts  at  a 
great  blaze  that  illumined  the  sky,  from  the  other  side 
of  the  town.  The  windows  of  the  little  lodge  were 
opened  and  the  men  were  leaning  out  and  gesticu- 
lating. 

"It's  at  Aubernon's.  .  ,  .  The  factory  is  on 
fire.    ..." 

Without  stopping  to  put  on  their  hats,  they  started 
off  at  full  speed.  The  burning  timber  yards  set  the 
night  on  fire  up  to  the  very  clouds.  The  church  bell 
had  begun  to  soimd  the  alarm  and  the  firemen  were 
buckling  on  their  belts  as  they  ran  to  the  Town  Hall. 

"Oh,  look!     How  it  is  spreading!" 

The  fire  at  one  bound  must  have  reached  the  sheds 
under  which  the  tarpaulins  were  stocked,  and  the 
whole  sky  was  lit  up  by  a  disastrous  dawn.  It  was 
as  easy  to  see  in  the  streets  as  in  broad  daylight. 

Magloire  Dubourg  did  not  follow  the  gardener.  He 
had  suddenly  understood  whose  hand  it  was  that  had 
kindled  that  flame,  and  seated  on  one  of  the  steps  of 
the  terrace,  filled  with  despair  to  the  very  depths  of 
his  soul,  he  watched  the  red  pulse  of  the  fire  beating 
in  the  sombre  sky. 

Three  days  later,  when  Saint  Magloire  crossed 
Barlincourt  at  dusk  on  his  way  to  the  station,  the 
factory  was  still  smoking.  Nothing  remained  of  the 
workshops  but  blackened  skeletons;  of  the  timber- 
yards,  nothing  but  a  few  big  piles  of  charred  wood  in 
the  midst  of  a  huge  swamp  in  which  the  workmen 
were  floundering.  It  was  stated  that  the  insurance 
would  hardly  cover  one-third  of  the  loss. 

The  Evangelist  stood  for  a  moment  in  thought  before 
the  huge  devastated  space.  From  a  distance  some 
loafers  watched  him. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  325 

"You  haven't  heard  anything  fresh  about  Gerard?" 
he  asked,  turning  to  Milot,  who  was  carrying  his  bag. 

The  cripple  replied  sadly  : 

"Nothing  much.  ...  At  the  Town  Hall  they 
have  had  a  telephone  message  that  Monsieur  Gerard 
had  confessed  everything  to  the  judge  in  Paris.  .  .  . 
He  is  plucky  enough,  that  lad." 

Adele,  who  was  accompanying  them,  groaned. 

"My  poor  little  dear,  that  I've  known  since  he  was 
in  long  clothes.  .  .  .  But  there's  nothing  but  mis- 
fortune in  the  world  any  more  ! " 

Magloire  had  started  off  again,  with  bowed 
shoulders.    .    .    . 

Here  and  there  they  passed  people  who  growled  out 
insults. 

"A  good  journey  and  a  good  wind  to  you!"  cried 
Begin,  the  baker,  from  his  doorstep. 

It  was  only  seven  o'clock  when  they  reached  the 
platform,  and  the  train  for  Paris  was  not  yet  signalled. 
The  station  was  dozing  round  its  glowing  stoves.  Out- 
side, the  wind  blew  in  sudden  gusts,  carrying  through 
the  night  a  sharp  smell  of  burning.  The  flame  of  the 
lanterns  flickered;  over  the  face  of  the  clock  the  hour 
was  trailing  its  two  weary  fingers. 

At  this  moment  when  he  was  to  leave  for  ever  the 
district  where,  hardly  a  year  ago,  he  had  arrived 
amidst  tempestuous  cheering,  believing  that  he  was 
called  to  regenerate  the  world,  Magloire  felt  himself 
crushed  beneath  a  load  of  mortal  sorrow.  He  was 
leaving  behind  him  lives  as  desolate  as  those  great 
ruined  timber-yards  from  which  the  smoke  was  still 
rising.  Why  all  this  mourning?  He  had  brought 
nothing  but  offers  of  pardon,  words  of  love.    .    .    . 

Standing  at  the  edge  of  the  railway  track,  he  looked 
at  his  shadow.  How  can  a  man  believe  that  he  will 
be  able  to  shake  the  world  when  his  shadow  takes  up 
so  little  room  on  a  deserted  platform?  It  follows  or 
precedes  you,  like  a  faithful  dog,  and  it  is  only  in  the 
lights  of  the  world  that  it  appears  for  a  moment  to  be 


326  SAINT   MAGLOIRE 

larger.  Slowly  the  saint  raised  his  arms,  and  his 
silhouette  traced  on  the  ground  a  strange  cross  of 
shadow.  Motionless,  he  gazed  at  the  example.  .  .  . 
Would  not  that  redeeming  shadow,  however,  cover 
the  earth  for  all '  eternity  ?  .  .  .  And  how  many 
martyrs  also,  how  many  tears,  how  much  blood  !    .    .    . 

He  came  back  to  Adele  and  Milot,  who,  with  aching 
hearts,  were  sitting  on  a  bench. 

"I  have  sown  suffering  on  my  way,"  he  said  to 
them.  "I  have  wounded  those  whom  I  loved  and  I 
ask  their  forgiveness.  But  I  was  only  obeying;  it  was 
for  the  happiness  of  all  and  for  the  glory  of  God. 
When  a  man  wishes  to  sow,  he  sees  nothing  at  first 
but  the  sharp  ploughshare  that  digs  the  soil.  Before 
you  judge  me,  wait  till  the  seed  has  sprung  up.    .    .    . " 

"Judge  you!"  protested  Milot,  who  had  risen  to 
his  feet.  "No  one  would  dare,  certainly  not  in  my 
presence.     You  are  above  everyone." 

The  maid-servant,  who  was  weeping  with  her  face 
hidden  in  her  handkerchief,  murmured  some  broken 
words. 

"For  me  you  will  always  be  a  saint." 

The  Apostle  looked  at  her  sadly. 

"And  yet,  am  I  not  responsible  for  your  suffering, 
Adele,  my  poor  friend,"  he  said  in  a  toneless  voice. 
"Responsible  also  for  the  death  of  my  poor  Yvonne, 
responsible  for  everything.  .  .  .  Gerard  said  _  so : 
there  is  no  longer  a  Dubourg  family,  and  it  is  my  fault." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he  fell,  heavily, 
like  a  log,  on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  the  old  servant. 

"I  beg  your  forgiveness,  my  poor  Adele,  and  i  beg 
the  forgiveness  of  all  those  whom  I  have  caused  to  weep. 
You  will  tell  them  that  at  your  feet  I  have  promised 
to  pray  for  them  till  the  day  of  my  death,  and  after- 
wards, beyond  the  grave.    ..." 

The  tears  were  falling,  down  to  his  bushy  beard, 
and  his  clasped  hands  trembled.  The  old  servant 
released  herself  quickly,  and  she  and  Milot,  taking  the 
old  man  by  the  arms,  forced  him  to  rise. 


SAINT  MAGLOIRE  327 

"  You,  to  ask  forgiveness  from  us,  oh,  never  ! "  cried 
Adele.  "All  my  life,  do  you  hear?  I  have  never 
endured  so  much  misery  as  in  these  last  months. 
Well,  aU  the  same,  that  will  be  my  dearest  memory, 
because  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  come  near  to  God. 
...  It  is  we  who  ought  to  be  at  your  feet,  asking 
you  to  bless  us." 

The  saint  raised  his  hands  above  their  two  bowed 
heads,  over  which  the  wind  passed  caressingly,  and 
his  lips  rhoved  in  prayer. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  goods  depot,  some  of  the 
railway  clerks  were  standing  together  whispering, 
with  low  bursts  of  laughter.  Only  Milot  noticed  them, 
and  turning  his  head  towards  them,  he  growled  : 

"They'U  never  be  anything  but  poor  devils  of  voters." 

Adele  had  begun  to  weep  again,  choking  with  sorrow. 

"I  know  1  shall  never  see  you  again,"  she  gasped. 
"And  it's  cis  if  I  were  going  to  live  always  in  dark- 
ness." 

"Have  confidence,"  answered  the  saint.  "The  time 
will  come.  \\Tiat  does  it  matter  if  I  have  not  been 
understood,  if  they  are  driving  me  away?  My  words 
will  remain  in  the  hearts  of  a  few,  and  by  loving  kind- 
ness eleven  disciples  were  enough  to  conquer  the 
world.    ..." 

In  the  chilly  silence  of  evening,  nothing  more  was 
to  be  heard  but  the  tiresome  ringing  of  the  telegraph; 
the  tired  eyes  of  the  signal  discs  seemed  ready  to  close, 
and,  on  this  deserted  platform,  the  saint  thought  of 
that  other  platform  where  all  must  embark,  some  day, 
for  the  unknown  journey.  .  .  .  He  would  have  been 
glad  to  die,  for  he  felt  that  his  task  was  ended. 

"My  God!"  he  murmured,  "forgive  my  weakness! 
When  my  eyes  had  once  beheld  Thee,  nothing  else  in 
the  world  ought  to  have  given  me  pleasure." 

All  was  submerged  in  shadow.  Nothing  could  be 
seen  but  the  outlines  of  trees,  the  red  and  green  signals 
and  the  gleaming  rails,  the  colour  of  rain.  The  smell 
of  burning  still  hung  in  the  air. 


32«  SAINT  ]VIAGLOIRF- 

A  pulley  creaked,  a  bell  tinkled,  and  a  cierK  opened 
the  door  of  the  waiting  room. 

"  Persan-Beaumont,  x'aris,"  he  cried. 

A  few  travellers  appeared  on  the  platform,  loaded 
with  packages.     The  station  began  to  wake  up. 

"Let  us  go,"  sighed  Magloire  Dubourg.  .  .  .  "The 
time  has  come.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  my  good  friends, 
my  only  followers  ! " 

Adele,  in  tears,  clung  to  him. 

"You  will  pray  for  my  poor  Louis,  won't  you?  Pro- 
mise me  ! " 

Milot  said  nothing.  With  clenched  jaws,  he  v.as 
choking  back  his  tears. 

"Let  us  say  good-bye,  my  son,"  said  the  saint. 

And,  as  the  train  ran  into  the  station,  he  clasped 
the  cripple  in  his  arms  in  a  close  embrace. 

Magloire  Dubourg  opened  the  first  door  that  came  to 
hand — a  third-class  compartment — and  got  in.  A 
man  was  dozing  m  a  corner. 

From  the  carriage,  leaning  his  broad  shoulders  out 
of  the  window,  he  continued  to  talk  to  them. 

"Above  all,"  he  urged  them,  "don't  regret  me. 
Only  remember  my  words  and  repeat  them.  .  .  , 
He  who  speaks  in  the  Name  of  Christ  bears  within 
himself  His  Body  and  His  Blood.  .  .  .  Good-bye. 
.   .   .   Good-bye  ! " 

The  train  whistled.  With  a  wrench,  the  long  shinmg 
ribbon  stretched  itself  out  and  began  to  glide  along 
the  rails.  The  luminous  carriages  passed  by,  quickly, 
quickly,  more  quickly  still.  .  .  .  Then,  the  black 
luggage  van.  .  .  .  Then,  low  down,  two  red  lamps 
that  grew  smaller  and  smaller  till  they  were  no  more 
than  two  pin-points.     Then,  nothing.    .    .   . 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Milot  tonelessly. 

And,  as  they  went  out,  he  said  to  the  clerk  who 
stared  at  him  : 

"You  may  well  grin,  donkey-face:  you  have  just 
made  a  m^LTtyv." 


EPILOGUE 

Bordeaux,  March  19.  Magloire  Dubourg  left  France 
this  morning,  on  board  the  Salzburg,  on  his  way  to 
Dakar,     An  old  missionary  accompanied  him. 

His  departure  took  place  quite  unobserved. 

{flavas.) 


V9 


JUL  ^ 

<j    '"■  " 

DATE  DUE 

mm 

LtBI^ARY  1 

OANS 

JUN  -  2  ! 

982 

>EC'n  A 

=R  2  9  19«2 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  US   A 

UC  SOUTHERN  RtGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


000  203  036    9 


3   1970  00489   107C 


■i-^  '^1 


